


Disregard the Danger

by destinationtoast



Series: Dangerverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Podfic Available, Post-Season/Series 03, additional information about relationships in Author's Note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 93,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody knows the whole truth about Mary Morstan.  With the possible exception of the British government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There is now a [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6872437) available, courtesy of the fantastic AxeMeAboutAxinomancy! :D
> 
> Additional content warnings and final shipping configuration available in the endnotes. Please also feel free to contact me via email -- same name at gmail -- if you have any specific questions about the content.

A wave of nausea. Fight it off.

Focus. Last chance to find another solution.

Top priorities, incontrovertible: the target must live. John must be protected. Of lesser importance, but not insignificant: personal escape.

No choice, then.

Or, more accurately: there may be another choice, but it would take a Holmes to find it.

Ironic.

Pulling the trigger, a realization: Mycroft is going to kill me.

The bullet hits Sherlock’s chest, and he falls backward to the ground.

* * *

_(Much earlier.)_

Her name was Gwen.

Agatha was her grandmother's name and the name her parents called her. She hated it. Adams was her father's name, and the name they called during roll at school. Raya was her other grandmother's name – her mother's mother – but she didn’t share that one, usually, because they made funny faces and asked where she was from. (They asked that anyway, if they met her Baba Raya, who lived with them and taught her bread baking and Ukrainian -- but hardly anyone ever came over, so hardly anyone ever asked.)

Gwen was the only name that was hers alone, and it was the one she gave her peers and teachers. Everyone called her Gwen except her family.

When she was young, she wanted to be in the movies.

Not an actress -- she wanted to be James Bond. Jim Phelps. John Steed. 

She had a few friends, but mostly preferred to play on her own, pretending to shoot guns, pilot fast cars, narrowly escape death, and outwit the enemy.

When she was older she realized that spies weren't real. At least not like in the movies, where the world was populated with people running around on secret missions, and anyone might turn out to be an undercover agent at any time. Besides, the British government probably wouldn't trust her, not with her family – in the movies, the Eastern Europeans were always the bad guys. She still wanted to see the world, though, and craved adventure. 

At age 11, she decided to be a soldier, ideally an officer. Unsure how to go about this, she enrolled in every possible subject and sport, and worked to excel in them all.

At age 16, she ended up being a nurse. Her mother grew ill. Her father, long gone, sent money but not enough to hire help. Her Baba Raya had passed away several years earlier. Gwen quit her extracurricular activities and focused on little else besides schoolwork and taking care of her mother. Her few friends drifted away. Caring for her mother alone was hard work, but there was a relief in keeping busy, in feeling useful.

When her mother died, there was nobody left, and no money. The next day, she enlisted with the goal of becoming a combat medical technician with the RAMC. She could see the world, experience danger, and if anything ever happened to send her home, nursing skills would make her employable.

She'd just finished her training when the British government showed up on her doorstep and asked if she wanted to be a spy.

* * *

“You'll be well compensated, of course,” the man in the gray suit told her with a smile that stretched his cheeks but reached nowhere near his eyes. “And have all the excitement you could want, I should think.”

“Mm,” she said. She tried to appear disinterested, staring at the walls of whatever strange warehouse they were in, but anyone who would get into a black car with tinted windows without asking questions was someone who obviously enjoyed living dangerously.

“You'll want to be aware, however,” he continued, leaning on his umbrella, “that we take our oaths very seriously. Should you ever divulge any information about your work, everyone you care about will be at grave risk.”

She laughed in his face. “I don't care about anyone.” She had, long ago. But the loss of her Baba, father, mother, and friends in turn had convinced her that it was not a useful pattern to continue.

“Good.” His smile appeared genuine for a moment. “It will be to our advantage that you lack pressure points. I have been looking for someone with your interests, intelligence, and lack of connections for some time. I have just the mission for you.”

“Oh?” She stopped trying not to sound intrigued.

* * *

She trained with the CIA before taking the post in Russia (she’d expected MI6, but the man in gray told her it would add another important layer of indirection to have a past in the American service). She learned languages, brushing up on her Slavic and studying a host of others – as well as codes, memory techniques, sharp-shooting, interrogation techniques and how to withstand them, and more. It was exciting, thrilling, everything she wanted.

And then it was dull. Her job in Moscow, following a corrupt government official and tracking his dealings with various unsavory characters, was not all she’d hoped. There was the occasional assassination, but the vast majority of her time was spent listening to mundane conversations and looking through bank records. She grew bored. And she grew tired of scraping by on the meager wages of a part-time nurse -- her cover identity.

Finally, she made contact with some unsavory characters herself. She took side jobs, got rid of people. Probably mostly people nobody would miss, but she didn't bother to look into their backgrounds. The pay was good and the risk was high, and it was perfect. 

Eventually, she made enough money and started to attract enough attention that it was time to get out. She could retire at 30 and live like an heiress, if she wanted to. Late one night, she disappeared. Left the CIA, left her post, left her life. She took on a new identity so that neither government officials nor unsavory Russians would be able to track her down.

She'd always wanted to live in London as a child. Gwen never had the chance, but Mary would.

* * *

_(Recently.)_

The man in gray looks displeased by the condition of the condemned building where they meet. He obviously isn’t much for fieldwork; the room is dim and drafty, but it has a substantially larger number of intact walls and far fewer rats than many regular meeting places she’s had in the past. 

“You've done well,” he tells her. “Just the right signals of disillusionment at just the right time, and quite the trail of assassinations following that. We've covered that trail, but not too thoroughly. Anyone who pokes deeply enough at your past will find traces of your unofficial activities in Russia. Definitely enough for leverage.” He smirks a bit at “unofficial,” and she returns the smile, as of course it was he that fed her all the targets, via several levels of indirection. 

It’s been ages since they met in person. She’s almost missed him; she’s been homesick for England more than a few times, and sad though it may be, this man is the closest thing she has to a friend. Not really very close -- she’s only just learned his surname -- but he is the only person who’s known who she is all along. She’s glad to see him again. 

“So, now that you're sufficiently blackmailable,” Mr. Holmes continues, “it's time to send you after the true target.”

“Magnussen,” she says. He nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few thank yous right off the bat:
> 
> I owe so many ideas in this story to various brilliant meta writers in the fandom, who's analyses I marinated in while coming up with this -- unfortunately, I don't know which ideas were inspired by whom. But thanks to everyone writing thinky things about S3 -- and to [knackorcraft](http://knackorcraft.tumblr.com/SherlockMetas) and others for collecting them. And thanks to [Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/36505.html) for the episode transcripts.
> 
> Thanks to many, many people for very helpful feedback on the outline and story, including Lisa E., Amy P., AxeMeAboutAxinomancy, jmathieson, wiggleofjudas, ShinySherlock, strangelock, and cosmoglaut. And thanks to many more for cheering me on -- especially prideandprejudiceandcheese!


	2. Risky behavior

Phase I of the plan is to become an expert on anything and everything to do with Charles Augustus Magnussen. 

For months, she follows him at a distance, gets a sense of his basic movements and habits. As she goes, she leaves behind a trail of sensors. She obtains access to the CCTV feeds outside his offices. She places cameras outside the perimeter of his residence at Appledore and outside the private airfield he frequents. (She nearly gets caught by his security more than once, leading to a few delightful chases and even an automobile accident or two.)

Magnussen is impressively repugnant. She watches him manipulate people, destroy lives. She takes copious notes and reports back to her employer regularly.

She begins identifying his employees, past and present. She monitors them, online and off. She makes the acquaintance of a few in real life, and creates a number of online identities to follow them on social networks (it’s amazing the details that people will casually reveal about their employers and places of work while thinking that they’re posting about their own lives).

Many of these turn out to be dead ends. She dates David, Magnussen’s driver, for two whole years. She quizzes him about work and places recording devices on his various possessions. But Magnussen travels only with his bodyguards and chooses not to confide in them -- at least not in the car. She’s relieved when David takes a new job and she can stop dating him; He is sweet, but very tiresome. His favorite hobby is being chivalrous and protecting her from things. 

(Occasionally, she’s lonely. She fantasizes, fleetingly, about having a partner, a family -- despite the fact that she knows the hazards of caring. But it’s a safe fantasy, all very abstract, because she knows she couldn’t find real people to fill those roles. Not with hobbies like assassination, wire-tapping, week-long stakeouts, and near-fatal car crashes. People like David only prove to her how very far she is from normal. She’s insane, and well aware of it — but mostly, she’s happy enough. As happy as she can possibly be.)

Magnussen takes a long time to get to know. He’s very cautious. Secured lines, encrypted data, checking his meeting places for recording devices. (His frequent meetings at 10 Downing St. and other British government strongholds should be easily surveillable given her employer’s resources, but Magnussen is too canny.) He may be terrifyingly powerful, but that doesn’t seem to be making him careless. 

If she wanted to kill him -- or, rather, if her employer wanted her to -- it would be easy enough. He’s not as careful with his personal safety, and she can take someone out from half a kilometer away. But, of course, that’s not what the man in gray is after. (Mr. Holmes, she reminds herself. She wonders sometimes if it’s his real name.)

Eventually, she gets impatient and decides to step things up.

* * *

“You shouldn’t be here.” He frowns at her as she enters the office deep within the Diogenes Club. He’s wearing navy. It throws her.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes.” She’s not actually sorry. She’s curious. She looks around the office, which she’s heard about for years but never seen. “But you haven’t been responding to my messages.”

“You haven’t had any news worth responding to.”

“I sent you the information about his new safety deposit box. And his upcoming trip to East Asia.”

“Uninteresting. I already knew both facts.” He raises his eyebrows. “Try harder, Agent Morstan.” 

It’s what she expected. “I think it’s time to start infiltrating his closest employees.” It’s more dangerous, but they’ve been hitting dead ends for too long.

“Do you have a target in mind?”

She nods. “Janine Hawkins.”

“The new PA? Bold.”

“She’s about my age. And wouldn’t you know it? We happen to use the same gym. Even chatted in the locker room, once or twice.” She grins.

His mouth makes a moue. “You didn’t wait for my approval to move ahead.”

She shrugs. “It was expedient to assume you’d agree with my analysis.” She mimics his speech style as she says it, grinning impertinently.

He steeples his fingers and makes what she knows is an attempt to look menacing. “Don’t grow overconfident, Agent Morstan. You should not visit me here. And you should not perform analyses when you don’t have all the relevant data. Your job is to bring me intelligence; mine is to make the decisions.”

She shrugs again. She’s a woman of action, and one he’s hired to do ludicrously dangerous things on a regular basis. He can hardly blame her if she takes action, or if she fails to be menaced by his stare.

He sighs. “Proceed. But don’t contact me in person again. Go through the proper channels, next time.” 

She nods, trying to hide a triumphant grin. “Yeah, all right. Where’s the loo?” Primary mission accomplished, she might as well take the opportunity to explore a bit more, as long as she's here.

She follows Mr. Holmes' directions down the hall, then takes her time on the way back. As she nears his office, she’s surprised to hear raised voices. She pauses outside the door to listen, able to see only the smallest sliver of the room through the door hinge.

“Oh, no, of course you don’t have time to talk!” shouts the man who is not Mr. Holmes, pacing back and forth. “I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. Maybe if you’d had more time -- if you’d paid more attention when he was alive, he wouldn’t be d--" a pause, then, softer, "-- he'd still be here.”

“John, I am rather busy right now. Important matters, I assure you. If you’d like to make an appointment with my assistant --”

“Bullshit, important matters. It’s your fault he’s gone. What’s more important than that?”

She hears Mr. Holmes sigh. “John, whatever misguided attempt your therapist has been making to get you to talk to people from the past as part of moving on, it's rather pointless in this instance. I regret your loss, but I have nothing to say to you.”

“ _My_ loss? You heartless bastard. What the fuck is wrong with you? He was your brother.” _Brother?_ It has never occurred to her that Mr. Holmes has a family, that he did not spring into existence in his current form. She tries to imagine him as a child and utterly fails. The best she can manage is an image of a smaller version of him, proportioned the same and clad in a three-piece suit, steepling his fingers and dispassionately threatening the safety of another child’s teddy bear if he fails to divulge desired information. And she can’t begin to fathom what his brother would be like. Still, she feels a sudden sadness for Mr. Holmes over the loss, hard though it is for her to conceive of.

“He was. And believe it or not, I deeply regret his absence. But that does not stop the needs of the nation. I’m going to have to ask you once more to leave.”

Mary slips out before she is spotted. But she lingers nearby, curious to get a better look at the man who dared to shout at Mr. Holmes. 

There’s something about the compact blond man as he strides down the street that keeps her gaze. Something in his step, the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes as if he’s replaying the conversation and imagining ending it with punches in place of words. At the corner, waiting to cross, he clasps his hands behind his back and stands at parade rest. He wears the most unassuming civilian garb yet radiates danger, like a tiger in an oatmeal jumper.

She wants to know everything about him. 

Only because it could be valuable to her, of course, in her understanding of her employer. Who apparently has -- had -- a brother. A brother unlike him -- a brother who was capable of having friends. (Or lovers?) Neither of which she has ever seen evidence of in her years of knowing Mr. Holmes.

* * *

“Have you tried the yoga class here?” she asks, knowing the answer.

“What? Oh, hi -- you again!” Janine smiles. “Yeah, I have -- the instructor is rather good, actually. Are you thinking of going?”

“Yeah, I was. I’m terribly out of shape,” she lies, smiling.

Janine laughs. “Really? You look quite fit.”

“Bless!” They engage in the standard feminine dance of self-deprecation and body loathing. Then, hesitantly: “I don’t suppose you know if there’s good coffee somewhere around here?”

Janine looks surprised. “You new here, then?”

Mary laughs. “Yeah, still getting settled in. I keep meaning to explore the neighborhood, but first I was unpacking boxes, and then my life got eaten up by a book, and I just haven’t --”

“Oh yeah? Which book?”

Mary names a recent bestselling thriller, and Janine squeals with delight at the serendipity. “Oh my God, I just read that!” 

Mary grins and pretends she didn’t already know this from looking at Janine’s library record. “Thank God, I’ve been dying to talk to someone about it!”

“Me too!” 

Mary glances at her watch. “Are you free now? I’ll buy you a coffee if you’ll sit and talk for a bit.”

Janine checks the time on her phone, then frowns and and taps out a brief email. “Sorry,” she says, looking up as she finishes. “Demanding boss.” 

“On a Sunday?” Mary widens her eyes. 

“All the time,” Janine grins wryly. “But I’ve got a bit of time right now, actually -- and I can show you where to find the best coffee.”

They get along smashingly. By that evening, Mary has obtained from Janine a number of local restaurant recommendations, a list of books to read, a spa date for next week, an inventory of her purse, and a copy of all the data on her phone. Janine even parts with the majority of these items willingly. It’s the start of a great friendship.

* * *

The man behind the desk is staring out the window, his face utterly blank and still.

She knocks on his open door. “Hi. I’m here about the job posting?” she says, smiling tentatively. She has no intention of taking a job, but this is a perfect opportunity to find out more about the man who yelled at Mr. Holmes.

“Oh, right,” he looks up at her, then stands to shake her hand. “Come in. I’m John Watson.“

“Mary Morstan.”

He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat. I’d offer you a cuppa, but I’m afraid I’m just getting the clinic set up, and don’t even have a kettle in -- all I can offer you is water. Disgraceful, I know.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you.” She sits.

He sits back down as well. “Good. Good.” And then he smiles at her. 

She wonders how she didn’t notice before that he’s a very attractive man. (Possibly it was the mustache, which doesn’t suit him.) She grins wide in response and stares him up and down. He laughs, and she realizes she’s missed whatever he just said.

“Sorry, what?”

“Most people don’t grin so suggestively when I ask them for their CV.” He smiles wider. “Is it such an interesting CV, then?” He raises his eyebrows and holds out his hand.

She hands him the piece of paper. “Nothing too scandalous, I’m afraid.”

“Pity,” he mutters, barely audible, scanning her fictional employment history. 

“I don’t put the most scandalous bits on my public CV, actually.” She arches an eyebrow as he glances up at her.

“Oh, really? Well, maybe you should fill me in on some of the details of your private CV sometime, then.” He grins in a just joking but totally not joking way.

“Maybe I should.” She returns his smile, and it’s the most truthful thing she’s done in ages.

* * *

“You’ve taken a job,” Mr. Holmes observes. She’d hoped it would escape his notice for longer, knowing she was hoping in vain. And indeed, on her very first day she’d received notice that she was to meet him. In another condemned building, this time -- no more visits to the Diogenes Club for her.

“It’s just a part-time gig,” she says. “I thought it would make Janine relate to me better.” It’s true. The more she looked into the job opportunity, the more sensible this seemed.

“Nursing.” She nods. “At the clinic of one Doctor Watson.” His eyes narrow.

She nods. “Yes. He seems amenable to a flexible schedule, so I think I shouldn’t have any trouble getting away as needed.” 

He stares at her a long time. “Purely a business relationship then, is it?”

He undoubtedly knows that her meeting John is not a coincidence -- quite likely knows exactly when and where she first encountered him -- but if he’s not going to bring it up, she’s not either. “Just coworkers, yes.”

“You’re having dinner with him tonight.”

She laughs. “You know, it’s creepy when you turn your powers against me.”

He ignores the deflection. “Why did you agree to meet him?”

She’s asked herself the same. “It’s a nice, normal thing to do. Go on a date. Something to talk to Janine about, next time we get coffee.” She smiles brightly, projecting innocence as best she can.

He smiles back, cold and tight-lipped. “I’ve spent years grooming you for this job. One of your primary advantages as an agent is your lack of attachments. Do not eliminate your usefulness.” 

She laughs. “It’s just a lark. You know me -- I don’t have real friends.”

His eyes follow her knowingly as she takes her leave.

“By the way, Mr. Holmes,” she says, pausing on her way out, “I’m sorry about your brother.”

He doesn’t respond.

* * *

“Where did you live before London, then?” she asks John, after they’ve ordered their meal and poured the wine.

He looks wary. “I was at war, actually. In Afghanistan.”

“Ooh, sounds exciting!”

He laughs, startled. “That’s a new one. Pity’s more common. Sometimes anger.”

“Oh, sorry, I can probably do those -- just give me a moment,” she teases.

“No, that’s all right,” he smiles. Then he swallows. “It was exciting, actually.” 

She nods. “Tell me all about it.”

He looks at her for a long moment, and then he does. He tells her war stories over dinner, getting more frank about both the terror and the excitement of the combat zone as they get closer to the bottom of the bottle of wine. She listens and asks questions and gently jokes with him when she sees that the honesty is becoming too overwhelming for him. And she regrets that she didn’t meet him during a time in her life when she could afford real relationships. 

She invites him back to her place, and they have frantic sex. Then they have more measured sex. It’s been a long time since she’s slept with someone more than once. A long time since she has taken the time to learn someone’s body, to map out their responses. She finds herself enjoying it.

In the morning, he cooks her breakfast (well, he heats a tin of beans and makes toast), and they drive to the clinic together.

* * *

_`Ooh, sleeping with your boss?`_ Janine texts during her lunch break, after Mary tells her who last night’s date was with. Since they traded numbers over coffee, they’ve been texting more days than not. Janine seems a bit lonely, which is a stroke of luck for Mary. _`Daring! Especially at a new job. `_

_Oh, well, that’s me, you know. Living a life of danger. _

_`Heh. How was it? `_

_None of your business, nosy,_ Mary responds with a smile. 

_`Must have been horrid, or you’d be bragging. I take it he’s lacking in certain departments. `_

Mary snorts. _Actually, it was lovely. He’s lovely. And the sex was excellent. Every time._

_`:DDD You have to meet me for drinks after work and dish. `_

Mary is pleased with herself. It’s extremely easy to pretend friendship with Janine, and dating John is definitely going to help make her more relatable. 

* * *

On their second date, she answers John’s questions about her childhood and early nursing career. She gets quiet as she talks about the car accident that killed her parents. 

John squeezes her hand. “I’m so sorry. It’s very hard to lose someone that close.”

She wipes her eyes with her free hand and nods. “Have you? Lost someone?”

He sighs. “Yes. Just a bit over a year ago, actually. I’m still putting my life back together.”

“Tell me?” She squeezes his hand back.

He does, but just a little bit. “He was like nobody else. So brilliant. He could tell what you’d spent the day doing from the splatter of mud on your trouser cuff.” 

It was genetic, then. (She’d always wondered how much of his older brother’s eerily accurate inferences were due to CCTV access.) She feigns skepticism, eliciting several tales of deductions and casework. “Fantastic!” she says, a number of times.

“I know.” John grins. 

The most surprising piece of information that she gleans from the evening is that her employer sports the rather ridiculous first name of Mycroft. It’s possibly even more ludicrous than that of his deceased younger brother.

That night, after they have sex, he whispers, “Thank you,” in the dark.

“Mm?” Mary is already slipping toward sleep.

“This is the first time I’ve been happy. Since.” His breath hitches. “For a while.” She listens to his jagged breathing and smooths his hair until he sleeps.

* * *

_`How’s your dishy doctor? `_

_Good. _

_`Good? That’s it?? `_

_`C’mon. Albert and I are on the outs again -- I’m depending on you for saucy tales! Tell me more about him. `_

_I think he may be the saddest person I ever met. _

_`Christ, you’re the worst friend -- that’s not helping me at all. `_

_`Want to meet for yoga and then tell me more after? `_

_Yeah. Cheers. _

* * *

John doesn’t have much else in his life besides the clinic, his therapist, and her. No family (mother dead, father out of the picture -- much like her, though of course she can’t say so; relationship with sister strained at best), no friends that he’s particularly kept up with (occasionally he sees Mike or Greg, but it’s very occasional). He and Mary end up spending the evening together after many of her shifts.

As they spend more time together, she grows more impressed by how broken he is, and by how well he mostly hides it. All day long, he smiles and jokes with patients, does paperwork, and runs errands with a calm efficiency. At night, alone with her, he’s funny, attentive, sweet. But interspersed with all of it -- especially when he thinks nobody is watching -- his face will suddenly become the saddest thing she’s ever seen. And sometimes something small, something seemingly innocuous, causes him unexpected pain.

She suggests, once, that they go see the circus, and he makes an anguished sound. It takes ages and several drinks for her to pull the story out of him of a previous circus date (and she’s not sure she has it straight, in the end; the Chinese gangster plot doesn’t make much sense). Once she has, she realizes that despite the apparent danger to his life and his girlfriend’s, the thing he’s most fixated on is how Sherlock brazenly invited himself along on John’s date. How John enjoyed having Sherlock along (despite his protests) and adored him for his very lack of boundaries; how Sherlock brought excitement into every corner of John’s formerly monotone life. John shakes as he talks about it.

* * *

She reads up on dating widowers. And suicide survivors.

* * *

Once she’s gotten him started, John won’t stop talking about Sherlock. She’s happy to listen -- fascinated by the stories of the cases they solved, but equally fascinated by the intensity of the relationship John describes. 

Alcohol is the key to getting John to open up. “It’s funny,” he muses one night at her flat. He’s propped up on one elbow, leaning against her sofa, utterly relaxed and open. He looks at her through slightly unfocused eyes. “You’ve never asked if we were sleeping together. People always used to assume. Even the blog readers assumed.”

She had wondered, at first. “The way you described him, I thought maybe he was asexual.”

John laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, he might have been. I don’t know. He was my best friend -- and I was his only friend -- and I still don’t have a clue if he’d ever had sex. Or if he wanted to.” 

“Would it have made a difference if he had wanted to?”

He closes his eyes for a long time, and she thinks he isn’t going to answer. Finally, “I’m not gay.” Clearly, she thinks, but doesn’t interrupt. “So for a long time, I never really thought about it -- except when people would assume, and I’d be irritated at them for being so sure they understood how it was. 

“But. Well. I’ve never really been interested in men. But. He wasn’t like any man I’ve ever known. And what I had with him wasn’t like any friendship I’ve ever had. And sometimes, since. Yeah, I’ve thought maybe. Maybe it would have made a difference. If he wanted that.”

She aches for him, wishes he’d realized in time to do something about it. Wishes it would have helped, would have stopped Sherlock from committing the senseless act that has filled John with such deep sadness.

Simultaneously, she’s fiercely glad that John is here now, with her.

* * *

_`You listened to him talking about his ex all night again, didn’t you? `_

_It’s not like that. _

Mary feels vaguely guilty that she even told Janine about Sherlock’s death. It feels too private to John. It’s also basically impossible to talk about John without talking about Sherlock, though.

_`Tell him to talk to his therapist. This isn’t your job. `_

_No, it’s fine. I want him to talk to me about it. _

_`You’re totally falling for him, aren’t you? `_

Mary stares at her screen for a long time.

_`...you there? `_

_Fuck, I am, aren’t I? _

_`Yep.`_

Fuck.

* * *

At first, the lying didn’t bother her. She’s always been of the opinion that not knowing everything about other people is the key to happiness, and she has never minded lying for work. She adores her job like she has never adored any person in her adult life, and she knows most people would be horrified by the fact that she occasionally kills people. So it’s never been a hard choice.

She feels that balance shifting, and lying becomes more inconvenient. And mildly troubling. Besides, knowing John’s priorities, he might be happier if he did know all about her dangerous side, so that’s no excuse.

Overall, she’s less bothered by the lying itself than the idea that John might find out. 

* * *

One night, months later, John is distant. Brooding. 

She asks what’s wrong; he deflects. She changes the subject, asks him to tell her about how he met Sherlock; he withdraws even further. She gives up and suggests they see a film.

After the film and some whisky, he apologizes and admits to her that he feels guilty. Guilty for talking so much to her about Sherlock. Guilty for missing him so much, for thinking about him constantly, still. “Even when.” He swallows. “Even when I have you. Even when I’m with you. All the time, I wish he were still here.”

Mary nods. “Of course you do. You loved him, didn’t you. You don’t forget someone like that. Not ever.”

He sighs. “It’s not fair, though. To you.”

She shakes her head. “It’s all right. I don’t expect you to turn it off.” John looks skeptical, and she searches for words. “He’s… he’s a part of you. You missing him is a part of you. And I care about all of you, including that part. I really don’t mind.” 

It’s true. She often thinks that she couldn't compete with the real Sherlock Holmes, if he were still here (at least Nurse Mary, the Mary that John is allowed to know about, couldn’t). But she’s perfectly content to share John with his memory.

He smiles at her. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he says. Then, after a hesitation, “I love you, you know.”

“Of course I know,” she says with a grin. “I love you, too.” For the moment, the discussion is set aside in favor of other activities.

Later that night, lying in bed, John says quietly, “I did love him. I’ve never said so, in those words. But it’s true, I suppose. I just wish he’d known.”

“I’m sure he did know.”

John laughs bitterly. “You didn’t know him. He was shite at emotions.” He goes quiet for a long moment. When he does speak again, he’s barely audible. “I don’t know what’s worse -- hoping that he did know, and that he didn’t jump because he thought I didn’t care, didn’t believe in him. Or hoping that he didn’t know, so that I don’t have to wonder why he left me, if he knew how much I cared.” His voice cracks.

She strokes his hair for a while.

“Most often, I think he didn’t know. So many times when I might have said...” He trails off and sighs. She pulls him closer, wraps herself around him.

* * *

She hails a cab and finds Anthea waiting when she gets in. It happens, from time to time; it wouldn’t do for her to be seen climbing into Mycroft’s car, obviously. (The driver of the cab is, of course, Mycroft’s.) Mycroft texts her on a dedicated mobile when the message is simple. When it’s more complicated, but he’s too busy to meet in person -- off doing whatever it is that Mycrofts do -- he sends Anthea with the message.

“You’re still seeing the doctor,” Anthea comments, not looking up from her phone.

“Yes.”

Now Anthea looks at her, cocks an eyebrow. “Risky behavior.” 

Mary shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “Mr. Holmes recruited me because I like risks.”

“You’re talking about moving in together, aren’t you? Mr. Holmes won’t like that.”

“I know.”

Anthea smiles, then turns thoughtful. “He won’t stop you, I think.”

“Of course he won’t,” she says confidently, belying the relief warming her chest. 

“If it were anyone else, he might. But he feels indebted toward Doctor Watson. Guilty, too, I think.”

“Guilty?” Anthea only shrugs. 

Perhaps Mycroft does feel some responsibility for the death of his brother, then. When John had laid out for her what had preceded Sherlock’s suicide, she had been convinced that Mycroft had some long con in mind when he’d leaked information about Sherlock to Moriarty. Mycroft is infinitely crafty, and never careless. But even if he did have a plan in mind, it had gone awry, and Sherlock had suffered the terrible consequences. As had John. And, all evidence to the contrary, Mycroft apparently experiences feelings -- or at least guilt.

“What do you see in Doctor Watson?” Anthea asks, curiously. “I always thought he was a bit dull. He must be more interesting than I’d realized, to capture your attention.”

Mary thinks about it for a while. Anthea is the only person besides Mycroft who knows what she really is, and out of the two of them, the only one she’s likely to confide in, especially about this. “He’s interesting. And he’s sharp. And he needs me. But mostly, I feel safe with him. He’s someone else who understands the thrill of danger. Someone who will kill when necessary. I can be myself with him.”

Anthea laughs at that, and after a moment, Mary joins in. 

“So what’s the message?” Mary asks, finally.

“It’s time to deliver some bait,” Anthea tells her.

* * *

_Sorry,_ she texts Janine from the clinic. _Have to cancel our spa day on Friday -- you’ve been trumped._

_`Hot date? `_

_Not this time. My stupid MP cousin is having a fancy do, and he made me promise to come._ She hits send, then adds, _I think he feels obligated to introduce me around, but I’m sure it’ll be all political talk and dull as bollocks._

_`I didn’t know you had a cousin in Parliament. `_

_I’m ashamed to be related to him -- he’s a Tory. _

_`Ugh, I can’t believe you’re standing me up for a Tory! You owe me. `_

_Why don’t I buy you dinner next week to make up for it? _

_`You’re on. Have fun with the Tories in the meantime. `_

_Vomit. _

Bait delivered.

“You free tonight?” John asks, poking his head out of his office. 

She looks up from her phone. “Who wants to know?”

“A certain doctor who I hear is rather smitten with you,” he says.

“Ooh, is he handsome?”

“Well, I think so, anyway.”

She pouts. “You think he’s handsome? That’s a shame, because I’m rather smitten with you, actually -- I don’t want any doctors turning your head.”

He tsks, trying to suppress laughter. “Oh dear, this is quite the love triangle we’ve got here. We should discuss how to resolve it over drinks.”

“I like the way you think.” They giggle at their ridiculousness as they lock up the clinic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lisa E., Amy P., AxeMeAboutAxinomancy, jmathieson, wiggleofjudas, and ShinySherlock for feedback on this one. (Beginnings are hard, and require much feedback. :) )


	3. Another Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's not Britpicked -- I welcome feedback/suggestions on that front, as well as in general.

Magnussen doesn’t take the bait immediately. In fact, he does nothing notably new or interesting for too long, and she finds it terribly irritating. For the first time ever, she finds herself paying less attention to work and more attention to the rest of her life.

She and John have only been dating six months and living together for one when Mycroft texts to warn her.

_`He’s looking at rings. `_

She frowns at what she thinks of as the Mycroftphone. _I’m going to assume that’s code for something relevant to the mission, since this is my Secret Spy Phone and all._ (Mycroft told her to stop calling it the Mycroftphone; she's since been amusing herself trying to make him regret that order.) He doesn’t respond.

* * *

Mycroft isn’t the only one predicting an impending proposal.

 _`I bet he’s going to ask you to marry him,`_ Janine sends to her regular phone. 

_He just moved in,_ she protests. _It would be ridiculous to propose now._ She tries to convince herself.

_`It would be romantic. He’s a romantic. `_

She’s not wrong. Mary, always the pragmatist, always devoted to her work above all else, should find it irritating. Instead, she finds it endearing. 

_It’s not that serious._ Maybe if she repeats it enough, it will be true. Maybe Mycroft was mistaken. She laughs at that thought.

_`Uh-huh. `_

_`Did you see the way he was looking at you yesterday when he picked you up from my place? `_

_`Bet you he pops the question before the end of the month. `_

It would be a disastrous idea. She feels a happy flutter in her stomach at the thought.

* * *

A few days later, Mycroft again: _`He’s booked dinner at the Landmark in three days. Put an end to this. Now.`_

She accidentally loses the phone in a nearby river.

* * *

The Tube is delayed, so she grabs a cab on the way home from the clinic. As she gets into the car, she sees Anthea and groans.

Anthea gives her an apologetic smile. “Bit of a detour, I’m afraid.”

Mary shrugs. “Of course.”

They ride in silence to a warehouse.

Mycroft gets right to the point. “You must refuse.”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” she says with a tight smile.

He frowns. “I have invested a decade preparing you for this mission. You are destroying everything we’ve worked so hard to do by forming attachments.”

 _We’ve_ worked so hard to do. She hasn’t seen him doing any hard work. Just sending her to train, to kill, to put her own life at risk. The fact that he’s right about his overall point only makes her angrier. “What do you even know about attachments, anyway.”

Mycroft ignores that. “I let this continue far longer than I should have. When you turned your life upside-down to move in with the doctor -- “

“It wasn’t upside-down,” she breaks in. “I told you, given that I’m only working at the clinic a fraction of the time that John does, and given how much of my work is done outside the flat or from my laptop --” and given that John turns out to be rather spectacularly unobservant, she adds silently, “-- it hasn’t actually interfered with my work.” Much.

When John moved in, she certainly had to make some adjustments. Her hours working on the case are, by necessity, more limited. And she can no longer work on on four laptops at once; John would obviously find that eccentric, to say the least. Having multiple laptops has been very useful for maintaining various online identities (Mycroft taught her the trick of having a separate device for each persona and a consistent spatial arrangement to help keep them straight), but she’s able to function fairly well with only a single computer. And if she’s paying somewhat less attention to Magnussen than usual, well, he isn’t doing anything right now anyway.

“I’m not sure you have an objective view of your own performance,” Mycroft says drily. “However. As I said, I let you continue down this path, against my better judgment. Believe it or not, I am fond of you. Both of you, actually.” Mary, skeptical, arches an eyebrow. “But an engagement is not something you can dismiss as meaningless, or a mere convenience. It is blatant, and it will be used against you.”

She says nothing. 

“I wonder,” he muses. “Would he even want to marry you at all? If he knew who you really were?”

“Yes. Of course,” she answers, as if she hasn’t been asking herself the same question for weeks. “I’m still me, even if he doesn’t know my real job.”

His lip curls. “I wonder.”

It’s not fair. This is the only thing she’s ever asked, ever wanted. She bites her lip. “Don’t tell me not to do this. Please.” 

He’s about to speak when Anthea walks in. She whispers something to him. Mycroft looks as close to worried as she has ever seen him. “This discussion is not over,” he tells her. “But it must pause here for now. Don’t be hasty in any decisions, Agent Morstan. Consider everything that you are putting at risk.” With that, he takes his leave.

* * *

She spends the next few days preparing for further debate with Mycroft, but he is strangely silent. She receives no instructions. So she does her work and watches John grow increasingly nervous and distracted as the week goes by.

“I’m going to see Mrs. Hudson,” he tells her on Thursday -- the day before their dinner reservation. He looks like a man going into battle -- but one who, unlike John, isn’t the sort to enjoy battle.

“Oh? Good for you.” Every time John has talked about Mrs. Hudson, he’s grimaced and said he should really get in touch, but he never does. “Would you like me to come along?”

“What? I … uh. No. No thank you,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll take you ‘round sometime and introduce you. But I think I need to talk to her alone this time.”

He’ll be talking to Mrs. Hudson about her, then. She nods, smiles, and lets him go. She tries briefly to think who she’ll want to tell, once they get engaged. There’s nobody, really, besides Janine. Janine -- who will probably be her chief bridesmaid, now that she thinks of it. She laughs humorlessly at the thought and goes back to illicitly reading Janine’s inbox.

* * *

It’s the big night at last. 

She’s perfectly calm, but John is adorably nervous. He keeps clearing his throat and absentmindedly patting the lump in his pocket, then looking at her sharply to check whether she’s spotted his movements. As if she wouldn’t suspect what’s about to happen -- he’s wearing a suit, for goodness sake, and they’re at a fancier restaurant than they ever go to, and it’s not her birthday. Of course she knows what’s coming, even before he says he has something to ask her.

Her phone buzzes. (Her regular phone; the other one is still at the bottom of the Thames.) She ignores it.

Her phone buzzes three more times, and she excuses herself and goes to the ladies room.

_` Has he popped the question? `_

_`How big is the ring?? `_

_`Did he get down on one knee??? `_

_` DAMMIT MARY THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME DON’T LEAVE ME HANGING `_

She turns off her phone, checks her hair, re-applies her perfume and lipstick, and heads back to the table.

As she approaches the table, she sees John fidgeting with a small velvet box. As she sits and apologizes for taking so long, he shoves it back in his pocket. She pretends not to notice. She smiles and asks if he’s all okay, then says, “Now then, what did you want to ask me?”

He fumbles a bit more, then starts the most Hugh Grant-like speech she’s heard outside of a movie. “Er, so ... Mary. Listen, erm ... I know it hasn’t been long ... I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time …”

She encourages him when he gets stuck. “Go on.”

“Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you…” He pauses, then nods. “Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”

“I agree,” she says, instinctively deflecting the intense emotion into a joke. He’s the best thing that’s happened to her, too. But then, that’s only half-true, isn’t it? Meeting him is the best thing that could have happened to her in her personal life -- but just about the worst thing, career-wise. But she can’t bring herself to regret it. Not at all.

“What?” John asks, surprised by her interjection. 

She grins. “I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.”

John laughs. She wrinkles her nose and apologizes. He tries again. “So ... if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um …”

Christ. He’s usually so smooth. This is unexpected. It’s also adorable and slightly painful. She smiles sympathetically. 

He takes a deep breath, then appears to commit. “ ... if you could see your way to -- ”

A French waiter with the world’s most atrocious sense of timing chooses this moment to break in. (Not actually remotely French -- his accent is possibly even worse than his timing -- and normally she would be intrigued, would try to determine why this man is putting on a false identity, but right now she is completely focused on John and what he’s trying to say.)

John tries his best to chase him off -- unsuccessfully -- while Mary giggles helplessly at their luck. Finally, John looks away from her to tell the waiter off for good.

In that moment, everything changes.

The waiter’s French accent is gone, and he’s saying something about a tuxedo and anonymity. But she’s focused entirely on John. Because something is very, very wrong with John. 

He glances at her, eyes brimming. “John?” She asks, alarmed. And now he’s stumbling, standing, breathing heavily. What on Earth would cause this? What news could possibly have such an effect? And how can she fix it? She repeats his name helplessly, uselessly.

Finally, some of the waiter’s words filter through her haze of worry and confusion. “Not dead,” he’d said, a moment before, between other words and nervous laughter. Oh. Oh! Not what -- _who._

“Oh no! You’re …” She looks into the face of Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh yes,” he says. 

“Oh my God.” He can’t be. He can’t be back. Not now.

“Not quite.” 

But how? “You died. You jumped off a roof.” And your brother never told me you were alive.

“No.”

“You’re _dead!_ ” she nearly shouts. You destroyed John. You broke him. And I picked up the pieces, and put him back together. And you can’t just waltz back in, reclaim him, and shatter him all over again. You can’t. I won’t let you.

In the midst of all her fear and anger and John’s near panic attack, the man makes a mustache joke. She stares at him, shocked, realizing he's not processing this the same way she is at all. 

“Oh my God, oh my God. Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done to him?” Just look at him, you idiot. Apply your famed skills of observation, and look at this man you nearly destroyed. 

Sherlock mumbles something, finally, about an apology. But it’s too late. John is slamming his fist into the table. She hears herself muttering useless reassurances, which he doesn’t even seem to hear. And suddenly Mary realizes that no matter how angry she is right now, she has to keep it together -- she has to focus entirely on being whatever John needs in this moment. 

He’s making the most heartbreaking groans, barely getting his words out. She wants to go to him, but knows that he wouldn’t appreciate it right now. Instead, she watches John express his anger, watches Sherlock completely misjudge the situation. John had said Sherlock was spectacularly bad at emotions, but she really hadn’t believed any person could be this bad. On the second round of mustache jokes (and granted, the mustache is hideous, and everyone knows it except John, but she can’t believe his timing), she begins to believe that maybe Sherlock really didn’t suspect at all what he was doing to John when he jumped. Her anger lessens a little.

It’s still a great relief when John attacks him.

* * *

Sherlock tries twice more to explain why he faked his death and why he’s back, but instead manages to reveal other things.

He reveals that he’s willing to lie to John again. She can tell he’s fibbing about the thirteen carefully calculated possibilities and the ridiculous bit about Japanese wrestling, though she doesn’t know why he’s lying.

He reveals that Mycroft was in on the whole thing, which doesn’t surprise her, really, but fans her anger and gives it another target. 

He makes it clear that he didn’t think John could be trusted to be discreet, but that he himself also can’t be trusted to be discreet when there’s an opportunity for dramatic flair. He claims that his presence in London is still a secret, and that he’s still undercover due to a terrorist plot, but instead of arranging a clandestine meeting, he has opted for maximum drama and spectacle, and is shouting back and forth with John about it in public.

(He also reveals that Mary dislikes John’s mustache -- that, at least, is a blessing.)

Toward the end of the evening, she's no longer immediately, viscerally angry. Watching John punch Sherlock, and Sherlock's complete bewilderment, has cured her of her own desire to physically assault Sherlock. John will need her support and comfort later, but right now he's handling himself fine. So she stays quiet and watches the two of them with fascination - a show she never thought she'd get to see.

She admires the charismatic madman that is Sherlock as he tries to tempt John back. He says the magic word, “danger,” and he tells John he needs him, and he leans in and looks at him so intensely. Just the two of them against the world, he promises. John chins him again for his overconfidence, but she knows he’s hooked. Who wouldn’t be?

* * *

Finally, John says, “C’mon, Mary, I’ve had enough. Let’s go home.” She nods and tells him to hail a cab, but she stays with Sherlock, watching him clutch his bloody nose. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, sounding absurdly young. “I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

She finally says what she’s been thinking all evening. “Gosh. You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?” 

He looks down at her. She wonders what he knows about her. She wonders what he deduces. She wonders what Mycroft has told him.

“Mmm, nature? No. Human? ... No.” 

What an odd, broken man -- but differently broken from John. Complementarily, perhaps -- overly reliant on logic and blind to emotional response. But sharing his addictions. _The thrill of the chase,_ indeed. Well. Her addictions, too. 

She finds him surprisingly endearing. Her heart goes out to him -- he’s so clearly been missing John, so clearly thought John would be waiting for him. Still, her heart goes out to John more. What Sherlock did utterly wrecked him, whether or not Sherlock was aware. And his reappearance is not going to be easy, in the short term.

She thinks, though, that John’s only path to happiness now is in reconciling with Sherlock. Forgiving him, not holding onto bitterness and resentment. “I’ll talk him round,” she promises.

* * *

In the cab, she gets out of the way the fact that she likes Sherlock. She knows that’s been a sticking point with John’s past girlfriends. They couldn’t stand Sherlock or the way he interacted with John. She wants to be clear that she won’t play the same role they did. 

John is bewildered by her statement, of course. But he relaxes just a little. 

“How are you doing?” She asks, sipping her tea, once they’ve gotten home and settled on the sofa. He’s skipped tea and gone straight for whisky.

“I can’t believe him.” John still looks a bit stunned, but he’s so much more himself than he was when Sherlock first appeared. His anger is more subdued, and he shows no signs of panic.

“No, I can imagine not,” she agrees. 

He shakes his head. “I thought the time he drugged me would be the worst.” She nods sympathetically. 

“Why, though? Why would he do that to me?”

Her mouth twists, and she reaches out to squeeze his hand. “I don’t think he had the slightest clue what he was doing to you, love. Remember when I said he probably knew you loved him?” John nods. “I take it all back. That man? Had no clue.” She sips her tea again, musing, and watching John stare at his feet and make duck lips. “I think he cares about you deeply -- why else the performance? Why else stick around and try three times to explain -- albeit exceptionally badly -- after you beat him up? Why else does he need you for a terrorist plot -- no offense?” John shrugs it off. “But he doesn’t know you feel the same. Has no idea what he’s done to your life.”

“Now hang on a tick,” John looks up at her, mildly indignant. “He doesn’t get a free pass just for being an idiot, just for not knowing --”

“No, no, of course not,” she hastens to say. “He owes you an explanation and an apology, of course. Even then, any sane person would agree that you’d be within your rights not to forgive him, not to see him again.” John shudders a little at the thought. “And I'll have you know, I still half want to beat him up for you -- if you’re done beating him up yourself.” John smiles just a bit at that, probably finding the image of her brawling with someone absurd and charming. “But just as a start -- I don’t think it was malicious. I think he imagined he was mostly hurting himself.”

She lets John talk a bit more as they get ready for bed -- mostly variants on, “I can’t believe him,” “That bastard,” and, “Oh God, is this even real?” She can tell he fears to go to sleep, expecting to wake up and find he needs to grieve all over again. Eventually, they’re all talked out, and they both lie in bed, separated by their fears. 

John lies with his eyes open, radiating worry, confusion, anger, hurt. All powerful emotions, all directed at Sherlock.

She lies next to him, feigning sleep, keeping all her worry in a ball inside of her. She thinks about the velvet box, forgotten in his pocket.

He won’t leave her, will he? John Watson is fiercely loyal. 

But. What if he does? What if he should? What if the one true love of his life just showed back up, and that’s who he really belongs with? 

She’s too pragmatic to believe that. Because she thinks a relationship is something you build, rather than something you find. There is no one true love out there to simply wander into. And she and John have built something really good, something really amazing, something she wouldn’t have believed she could be a part of.

John’s not a pragmatist, though. He’s a romantic. She wishes he’d finished his proposal before Sherlock returned. That would be a bond John would have a harder time walking away from.

 _No!_ She feels her body tense and focuses on regaining her calm. No -- she wants John, but she doesn’t want to keep John just because he feels trapped. Trapping people is not a good way to keep them, in the long run. 

And it’s not that she doesn’t want him to see Sherlock. She’s never seen John really happy, completely happy -- and, maybe that Sherlock’s back, there’s a chance that he could be again. She wants that for him. 

Maybe John can be happy again, having a relationship with Sherlock like the one he had before. Maybe that’s all he’ll want, now that he has her.

But what if John wants more, now that he’s realized the opportunities he missed? What if he feels regret and wishes he could correct that?

What if he’s right to wish that? Shouldn’t he be happy? She wants him to be happy. She doesn’t want him to have regrets, to always wonder if he missed out on something better. But she doesn’t want to lose him, either.

What if she didn’t lose him, though? What if she let him have whatever he wanted? 

It’s a confusing thought. She feels a twinge of fear and a sour taste in her mouth. But… not losing him matters more than winning him outright. And she doesn’t want to go head to head in competition with Sherlock for John. She might -- might -- be able to win now, when things are excellent between her and John, and John is angry with Sherlock. But at some point in the future, there are bound to be rough patches ahead. How many of those before the grass looks greener, and John feels he has to leave her in order to give a relationship with Sherlock a try?

No. She can’t make it a choice between her and Sherlock. She has to be loving and utterly supportive of anything he wants from Sherlock. As long as he stays with her, too.

She wishes he’d proposed, though.

She’s not sure which of them finally drifts off first.

* * *

In the morning, John opens his eyes to find her watching him. “It really happened,” she tells him with a gentle smile. 

He breaks into a grin and looks ten years younger, then sobers again. “That bastard,” he mutters with halfway real irritation, but he looks far more relaxed than he did last night. Nearly joyous, even. She nods agreement, smiling fondly at him.

She reads aloud selections from John’s blog entries as John performs his morning ablutions. (She pretends it’s the first time she’s read them, though of course they were one of the first things she perused when researching John Watson.) She picks passages that she can rib him about, but also that will remind him of the things he loves about Sherlock. He protests, and she ignores him, as she usually does while teasing him.

She stops short, though, when she looks up and sees John’s face smothered in shaving cream. 

“What _are_ you doing?” she exclaims.

“Having a wash.”

She grins. “You’re shaving it off!” She’d wondered how long it would take.

John says with mild accusation, “Well, you hate it.”

“Sherlock hates it,” she observes. Because Sherlock had hated it so vocally, she’d half expected John to keep it around a while to spite him.

“Apparently _everyone_ hates it,” he responds. 

She giggles gleefully, not at all sad to see the end of the mustache. “Are you going to see him again?” she asks.

John rolls his eyes at her, but doesn’t respond. She judges him in a good enough mood to push just a bit more. “Cor, I dunno – six months of bristly kisses for me, and then His Nibs turns up…”

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Oh! You should put that on a t-shirt!” 

“Shut up.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll marry you,” he says firmly. He turns to look at her. She grins with delight. And there’s the proposal she expected from John Watson, finally. Smooth, teasing, confident. She laughs with delight and relief. Despite the reappearance of Sherlock, he still wants to threaten her with marriage. 

On the Tube ride to the clinic, they don’t talk much. He puts his arm around her and holds her close against him, as they haven’t done since early on in their dating, and she leans into him. Before he sees his first patient, Mary reminds him, “I’m seeing Cath tonight, don’t forget. Maybe you should go and give Sherlock another chance to explain himself, yeah?”

John sighs and nods. “Thanks,” he says to her. He squeezes her hand. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

She grins. “I know.”

She knows John is watching the clock all day. Unfortunately, he has a very full slate of patients. He handles them all without too much difficulty, though of course he seems distracted (and, at one point, he sounds agitated -- but when she checks on him, he says he’s fine).

(She finally remembers to turn on her phone over lunch and finds 28 texts from Janine. She fills her in: _Yes, engaged; No, no ring yet, we kind of skipped that part; I’ll fill you in later. ___She turns her phone back off after this fails to placate Janine.)

On her way out that afternoon, she’d planned to tease John again and also tell him it would be okay if he wanted to stay over at Baker Street tonight (just to sleep, hopefully -- but she figures he and Sherlock might be hashing things out until late). But he’s so very distracted, she just kisses him and reminds him she’s off to see Cath. She’s not sure he hears.

* * *

There is no Cath, of course. Cath is a friend she made up so that John won’t ask where she is when she’s doing work -- real work. Cath’s interests -- shopping and crochet -- are specifically chosen to be anathema to John, and he’s never expressed the slightest desire to meet her. It’s amazing the things you can get away with telling someone when they don’t expect you to lie.

She starts walking down the street and is utterly unsurprised to be met by a cab containing Anthea after a few blocks. “Did you know he was alive?” She asks.

“Of course,” Anthea shrugs. “Oh, by the way -- I’ve ordered you a new phone,” she says. “Not that I don’t like seeing you more often,” she smiles, “but Mr. Holmes would prefer to be able to text you when he needs to.”

Mary nods. They travel in silence to the place where Mycroft is waiting.

“You accepted Doctor Watson’s proposal,” he says before she can speak.

She’s not wearing a ring yet -- it’s still in John’s pocket. “Oh, of course -- you have our flat bugged. You fucking arsehole.”

He arches an eyebrow. “That’s not how I was able to tell, but it’s not untrue. For your own security, mainly.”

She nods. That’s fair. “Well. That’s not why you’re an arsehole, anyway.” When he continues to stare with at least feigned non-comprehension, she continues. “You didn’t tell me he was alive.”

“Ah, yes. The prodigal detective returns.”

“Do you know I actually pitied you for your loss?” she says, voice hard.

He smiles insincerely. “Well. I hope you can be trusted not to repeat that misplaced emotion.”

She walks up close to him, closer, then stops mere inches from him, and looks up at his face. Despite her slight stature, she finds that she is quite capable of making people uncomfortable in this fashion. She speaks quietly. “I think you’re aware that it would have been quite relevant to my life to know.” 

“That is entirely your fault. I advised you not to become involved with Doctor Watson.” 

“You said you were fond of both of us. I don’t believe you. Not telling John was incredibly cruel.”

Mycroft’s jaw sets. “Agent Morstan, Sherlock was away on government work--”

“Tracking down Moriarty’s network, with your help,” she interjects, half a question. At this point she’s not necessarily taking anything Sherlock said at face value. (Not that Mycroft is a reliable source either, but.)

He nods. “I should not have to tell you that sometimes we must place the job ahead of our own personal connections -- though, in fact, it appears that I may have to remind you of exactly that. Why did you accept John’s proposal after our discussion?”

“I didn’t,” Mary says, angrily. 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “Do you deny that you’re engaged?” 

She still has no idea how he knows. Probably the condition of her hair barrette, or something, she supposes. “No. But he didn’t ask. He just told me.”

Mycroft actually rolls his eyes at that. Then he sighs. “Of course. Well. If you cannot be dissuaded, congratulations are in order then, I suppose.”

Having anticipated further argument, she’s caught off balance. He seems sincere, however. She steps back out of his personal space, and they both relax slightly. “Congratulations, Agent Morstan. And my sympathies to you and Doctor Watson for the ways in which Sherlock’s absence and reappearance have affected you.”

She blinks at him. “Thank you,” she says uncertainly.

“This will change things,” Mycroft says. 

“I know.”

“Doctor Watson will be at greater risk from Magnussen.”

“I know.” She sighs a little. 

He nods. “We’ll need to reconsider some of our contingency plans, then.” And with that, he shifts to talking about work. They discuss Magnussen’s recent movements and their next steps.

Afterward, as he turns to go, she asks, “Did you talk to him much? While he was gone?”

He turns back to her with a look of surprise, but answers. “Rarely. Not directly.”

“Did you miss him?”

A pause. “Terribly.”

She nods. “I’m glad he’s back.”

His head tilts. “Are you really? Doctor Watson has never had room in his life for a female companion when Sherlock has been here to fascinate him.” It’s a dispassionate observation, not apparently an attempt to needle her.

She smiles. “I’m not worried.” 

His look says he doesn’t believe her. “Sherlock is chaos,” he says. “I’ve only ever known one person to thrive in proximity to him.”

She shrugs with fake confidence. “Does he know I’m working for you?” she asks.

“No. Nor about the Magnussen case.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t expecting that. “But -- why? If you trusted him as an agent on the Moriarty case?”

“It wasn’t trust so much as necessity. We needed a mind as keen as Moriarty’s to track down his men. And I do hate legwork.” He smirks briefly. “But he is a loose cannon. He refused help from my agents, refused orders in general, and flounced about solving cases and drawing unwelcome attention when he was supposed to be dead.” He frowns. “Sherlock Holmes is not subtle. The Magnussen case requires subtlety. You will not tell him about the case, nor indicate that you are anything other than what you seem.”

Surely Mycroft doesn’t mean a nurse, knowing how Sherlock’s mind works. “A rogue intelligence agent in hiding?” she asks.

He smiles. “Precisely.”

“What if he tells John?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. 

Mycroft shrugs. “The case comes before personal life, Agent Morstan. I expect you to maintain that cover story, even if Doctor Watson uncovers that layer of your background and finds it distasteful.” On that disquieting note, he takes his leave.

* * *

On the way home, she finds herself making plans to be uninteresting. Perhaps if she is sufficiently uninteresting, Sherlock won’t dig too deep into her alleged past. Won’t realize how many people she’s allegedly murdered. (Well, actually murdered -- but with the British government’s sanction. Which would make all the difference to John -- but that’s the bit that she can’t tell either of them, of course.)

She’s nearly home -- wondering how John and Sherlock are doing -- when her phone beeps. Likely that’s John now. She eagerly looks at the screen. 

_`Save souls now!`_  
_`John or James Watson?`_  
  
_`Saint or Sinner?`_  
_`James or John?`_  
_`The more is Less?`_

She frowns, then goes pale as she spots the message. She reaches for her Mycroftphone, then realizes it’s still at the bottom of a river, and she swears aloud. “Bloody bugger fuckity fuck.” That out of the way, she goes to find another Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AxeMeAboutAxinomancy, Lisa E., and Amy P. for beta feedback.
> 
> Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the [TEH transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html).


	4. Save John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Britpicked; Britpicking and other suggestions welcome in the comments.

She can't recall a thing about the drive over. She simply finds herself on Baker Street, nearly panting. She’s filled with adrenaline, but instead of the usual focusing effect, she feels fuzzy-headed and utterly lost. 

As she approaches the flat, she tries to think about strategy. Perhaps she should let Sherlock find the message himself, rather than admit to having decoded it. But why would she be bringing Sherlock the message, if she didn’t understand the threat behind it? 

Maybe there’s a solution, but she can’t think. She gives up -- John’s in danger; everything else, including protecting herself, takes second priority. 

(It’s only later, much later, that she realizes she could have pretended she was coming by Baker Street expecting to meet John there, could have pretended to receive the odd text in Sherlock’s presence, could have let him spot the whole thing. If only she’d been able to think.)

She knocks at 221B, and the door is answered by -- “Oh, Mrs. Hudson!” (She doesn’t want this to be how they meet. She'd planned to introduce herself properly, to make a good first impression. She’d imagined sitting down for tea, gossiping about John. She'd wanted to be on Mrs. Hudson’s good side.) She brushes the buzzing thoughts aside as she brushes past Mrs. Hudson.

“Sorry -- I -- I think someone’s got John -- John Watson.” She starts up the stairs to the flat that she’s heard so much about.

“Hang on! Who are you?” 

Shoot. She forgot that part. She turns back. “Oh, I’m his fiancee.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Ah!” 

Sherlock meets her at the landing. “Mary? What’s wrong?”

She babbles it all a bit incoherently, tries to sound like she didn’t instantly recognize the message, but also comes out and says “skip code” so that Sherlock won’t waste a moment searching for the message himself. (Dammit, she’s usually much better at managing her personas. But all she can think of is John.)

“Save… John… Watson,” he reads. She shows him the rest, and he says, “Now!” They race down the stairs. 

St. James the Less means more to Sherlock than to her, fortunately, and he names their destination. “Did you drive here?” he asks.

“Er, yes.”

“It’s too slow. It’s too slow.” He paces in the middle of the street. 

She feels panicky. “Sherlock, what are we waiting for?” She is about to suggest they call Mycroft -- he can find ways to get them there fast -- but then she can’t remember what she’s supposed to know about Mycroft, and dammit, why can’t she think straight?

“This!” Sherlock steps in front of a speeding motorcycle and holds his hand out. Mary doesn’t even care enough to scold Sherlock for unnecessarily risky dramatic gestures, nor to apologize to the couple on the bike. Sherlock bodily pulls them off the bike while flashing a badge and handing them something -- “Police, sorry. Call this number and you’ll be more than compensated” -- grabs their helmets, and then they’re off.

The high speed bike ride, on a bike piloted by a glorious madman, would normally be a highlight of her year. But she’s too busy reading and sharing with Sherlock the incoming messages. And panicking. (She barely manages to note that whoever is sending her messages is now addressing Mr. Holmes -- Sherlock, in this case. A fact to ponder later.) The time's counting down, and she doesn't know to what, doesn't want to find out. She clings to Sherlock and fights off the urge to scream “Faster!” in his ear. She can see that he's going as fast as he possibly can and is just as frantic as she is, but it might not be enough -- what if it's not enough? 

At last, after years, decades, geological eras on the bike, they near their destination, and she gets yet another ominous text:

_`What a shame`_  
_`Mr Holmes.`_  
_`John is quite a Guy!`_  


“What does it mean?” she begs of Sherlock. 

“Oh my God.” She clings to him as they turn and accelerate toward a bonfire in the park, just set alight.

“Jump off!” Sherlock yells, and she does. While she’s still trying to determine what’s happening, he runs toward the fire. She realizes where John is, finally, and follows as he shoves the crowd aside.

They are both screaming John’s name. Eventually, they hear him answer. Before Mary can act, Sherlock thrusts his arms into the fire, heedless of the danger, and pulls him out and away from the bonfire. 

Mary and Sherlock hover over John, now lying on his back and extremely dazed. Mary’s eyes fill with tears as they look down at him. “John,” she says over and over. It’s all she can say. 

It’s all Sherlock can say, too.

* * *

She insists on taking John to the hospital for stitches and a general examination. He may be suffering from smoke inhalation, and he’s slow to regain coherency. She doesn’t want to take any risks. Sherlock defers to her judgment, though she can tell they never generally bothered with the hospital when it was just the two of them. 

As she suspected, the nurses end up wanting to examine and treat Sherlock’s burns -- fortunately mild -- as well, and he grumpily allows it. 

The drugs in John’s system are found to be nothing too alarming, but the hospital wants to keep John overnight for observation, nonetheless. John tries to argue that he’s fine, but falls asleep mid-protest, still feeling the effects of the sedative. Neither Mary nor Sherlock is willing to leave his side. At least they’ve given John a private room. Mary collapses into a chair on one side of John’s bed and stares at his sleeping face while Sherlock paces on the other.

 _I’m so sorry,_ she thinks as she watches him. She has never before panicked under pressure. She’s trained to keep her cool in tough situations, and she does so. Except when John is at risk, apparently. She suddenly understands viscerally why agents aren’t supposed to form attachments, and the knowledge sits leaden in her stomach. Unfortunately, it’s not just her job that’s suffering as a result. _I failed you, John. I put you in harm's way_ \-- for it’s Magnussen who’s responsible, it must be Magnussen -- _and then I couldn’t think clearly to get you back out._

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps, turning to glare at her mid-pace.

Mary looks up, startled. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re thinking too loudly.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your self-recriminations are deafening. You could at least make yourself useful.”

“...Okay.”

“The question,” Sherlock says, “is who would do this. Who is after John -- or after one of us.” He hops up onto a hospital chair and sits on his heels, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I have had enemies try to get to me before via John, of course. But they’re dead.” He thinks for a bit, then turns toward Mary. “Do you have any enemies?”

She laughs lightly. “Um. Well. There was a girl in my class at nursing school -- I stole her boyfriend. She was none too pleased.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but then shoots her a discerning look. “You were the one who received the messages, and the one --” 

“Sherlock, look,” she cuts him off. “We could both wrack our brains trying to come up with possible villains, or we could just wait and talk to John about what happened when he wakes.”

Sherlock nods grudgingly, but she’s not sure he’s going to stop the uncomfortable questions. So she turns one on him, instead. “Why didn’t you tell John you were alive?”

“It was classified,” he says.

“Oh, of course! And you’re such a stickler for following the rules, aren’t you?” 

He glowers at her, and she meets his stare unflinchingly. Then, looking at John, he says, “He was in danger.”

“John?”

A nod. “And others. There were snipers.”

“When you jumped?”

“Yes. Well, as far as I knew, anyway. Mycroft’s agents found them all -- but I wasn’t sure of that at the time. I thought they would shoot if I didn’t jump.”

“All right, so that’s why you faked your death. But why didn’t you tell him you were still alive?”

He keeps watching John, but is silent long enough that she thinks she might not get an answer. Finally: “I had no idea it would take so long. I thought I would be back much sooner. But had I known… Even then, I would have done the same.”

He sighs. “I thought of telling him. I wanted him with me, more than… more than I would have imagined. But I’d reached the conclusion that I was not at my best when I knew John was in danger. It was much easier to do my job knowing that he was safe here in London.” He grimaces. “I asked Mycroft to ensure that he was.”

Mary has more empathy for Sherlock than she would like. “It must have been very hard,” she says gently.

He looks at her with surprise -- was he expecting anger? “It was, without a doubt, the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you didn’t think it would be at least as hard on him?”

He swallows. “I miscalculated. Emotions are not my strongest suit.”

Mary smiles at the assessment. “What did you think you meant to him, then?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I was a source of the excitement he craved. And someone he admired, at least in some respects.” He hesitates. “And, I hoped, a friend. He said I was, at one point.” She feels immense sadness for him. He went away with no idea how John felt. 

“I didn’t realize he’d feel guilty,” he says quietly, looking at John once more. “Another error -- not doing my research properly into suicide, and how it would affect others. I never intended that.” 

“He did feel guilty,” Mary says. “But mostly I think he was just lonely, sad without you.” 

She means it to be comforting. But Sherlock flinches, then says, “I’m glad he found you, then. Thank you. Thank you for taking care of him, for making him happier again.”

She bites her lip. “He never stopped talking about you, you know.”

After a silence, he hesitantly asks, “Is what I’ve done forgivable?”

“You should tell him what you just told me.”

“He doesn’t need to know all that.”

“You should. Tell him about the snipers, just for a start.”

He shakes his head impatiently. “They weren’t even there anymore, by the time I jumped.”

The argument doesn’t really make sense; John would understand that Sherlock thought there was a risk. She wonders whether Sherlock really thinks he deserves forgiveness. “I think he’s likely to forgive you, especially if you tell him. But he might not say so out loud. John doesn’t talk about his emotions much, as you may have noticed -- pretty much not unless someone is dead or dying, I should think,” she says with a fond smile in John’s direction. _Or drunk,_ she adds silently. 

Sherlock looks dissatisfied, but nods. 

In the morning, after their vigil, Sherlock flees just before John opens his eyes. She takes John home. 

* * *

“You don’t remember anything else about them?” she asks again. John’s memories of his kidnappers are frustratingly useless.

“Nope,” he says with a smile. “I’m afraid I was a bit drugged, for most of it.”

She smiles back. “Sorry, love. I just want to understand why this happened to you.”

He kisses her forehead. “Sherlock will figure it out.”

She smiles and fervently hopes he’s wrong. “You going to see him later, then?”

John nods. “After clinic.”

“You’re going in today?” She frowns. 

“‘Course I am. I’m fine.” 

“You should stay home and rest. You’re allowed.”

He smiles. “I’m fine,” he says again. He looks fine, sounds fine, acts fine -- but she shakes her head at his stubbornness. She wouldn’t take any time off, either, but she wishes he would.

“You going to be okay, though?” he asks with concern. “You must have been worried sick about me, during all that. I’m sorry.” He looks wary as he says it, like he’s awaiting a scolding.

She smiles. “I’m fine, thanks. Besides,” she adds teasingly, “from what you’ve told me, the bonfire was a boring day at the office compared to what you and Sherlock often get up to. So I shouldn’t take it too seriously, should I?”

His brow furrows in disbelief. “You’re a marvel, you know that?”

She grins. “‘Course I do. Now go on. Have a good day at the clinic, and then talk to Sherlock. Try not to get kidnapped, if you can help it -- don’t want to make a habit of it.”

He laughs and sweeps her into his arms. “All right. You have a good day with Janine -- it’s your spa day, yeah?” 

She nods, smiles, and kisses him goodbye. After he leaves, she calls Janine to cancel, then walks to the bedroom and starts packing a suitcase.

She’s halfway packed when someone clears their throat behind her. She jumps, spins, looking around for weapons. She finds Anthea watching her, holding a small box. “Going somewhere?” she asks.

Mary relaxes. “Yes, actually.”

“Where?” 

“Not far. No need to worry. I’m not running away from the job.”

Anthea arches an eyebrow. “Running away from Doctor Watson, then?”

Mary nods. Then she resumes taking clothes from the closet and adding them to her suitcase. 

Anthea gingerly takes a seat on the bed. “Feel like talking about it?”

Mary blinks at her. “Did Mycroft send you to ask me that?”

Anthea snorts. “No, Mycroft sent me to give you a new phone.” She holds out the box, and Mary takes it. “This one’s waterproof.”

Mary laughs and adds the box to a pile of personal electronics nearby, waiting to be packed as well. Then she eyes Anthea curiously. “Why are you asking, then?”

Anthea shrugs. “I’ve run away before -- but from someone that made me unhappy. It seems to me that Doctor Watson makes you quite happy. So I’m curious why you'd leave.”

“I put him in danger,” Mary says. “It had to be because Magnussen has noticed me that he was kidnapped.”

Anthea nods. “And?”

“And that hardly seems fair for John.”

Anthea tilts her head. “I’m sorry, have you met Doctor Watson? He seems to thrive on danger.” She pauses. “You think you didn’t handle it well, though -- is that it?” Mary doesn’t answer. “Off the record,” Anthea adds. “I promise I’m not asking for Mycroft.”

Mary has no reason to think that Anthea wouldn’t lie -- in fact, she’s quite sure Anthea is happy to lie when it’s useful. But she doesn’t really think it matters just now. “No,” she says with a sigh, “I really, really didn’t.” 

“How so?”

Mary ticks off the list as she shoves socks and underwear into a side pocket. “I panicked. I behaved unprofessionally. I babbled in front of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, failed to stay in persona. I didn’t notice obvious wordplay in the messages we were receiving. I didn’t think about who was sending the messages or from where, or what kind of surveillance they must have had on us, until later. I fell to pieces right when I most needed to keep it together.”

“So, what, you’re going to leave John? Permanently?”

Mary hasn’t let herself put it that way, hasn’t let herself examine what she’s doing except from oblique angles. When she hears the words, she very nearly whimpers, and she sits down heavily on the floor. “Oh, God. I’m not actually going to be able to make myself do that, am I.”

Anthea smiles. “Of course you’re not. Very noble of you to try, though. And I’m sure John would be delighted to have someone he loves leave him again, without any explanation.”

Mary scrunches up her face. “Bollocks. What am I going to do?”

“I think you’re going to unpack and then come have a drink, probably.”

Later, over glasses of John’s scotch, Mary says, “I can’t do my job like this.”

Anthea says, “So don’t. Pull yourself together.”

Mary looks at her with a mixture of resentment and amusement. “Oh, right, thanks. Why didn’t I think of that.”

Anthea shrugs. “Well, it’s not like you have much choice. You either have to leave him, or be competent even when he might be in danger.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“How incompetent were you, exactly? What did you do first?” 

“Tried to call Mycroft, before I realized my phone was gone -- oh, God, Mycroft is going to kill me. He warned me against becoming involved.”

“Mycroft will empathize.”

Mary raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What, are you going to tell me he has a wife at home, compromising his own objectivity?” Then she gets it. “Right. He has Sherlock.”

“Indeed.” Anthea smiles. “So. When John was kidnapped, you tried to call one Holmes brother. When that failed, you instantly went to the other one for help. Correct?” Mary nods. “I wouldn’t call that incompetent, or going to pieces.”

Mary frowns. “I could have done worse, I suppose.”

“You could have done better, too, I’m sure. You’ll do better at the details next time. You have to, so you will.”

“You sure I can’t just go back to not caring about anyone again?” she asks. 

“Feel free to try,” Anthea returns her wry smile. “And let me know if you figure out that trick, please.” Mary looks at her curiously, but before she can pry into who Anthea worries about, Anthea adds, “As a Plan B, it might help if you don’t destroy your best way to get in touch with Mycroft, though.” She shakes the box with the phone in it gently.

Mary nods. “Yes, yes. Consider me suitably chastised. I won’t throw away any more expensive toys.”

“The Budget Office may call on you next time, if you do,” Anthea warns, very seriously. Then they both giggle a bit.

Mary sighs, finally. “Well, thanks for talking some sense into me." 

Anthea smiles. "Certainly. Now we just have to hope Sherlock doesn’t blow your cover -- to that end, you might also not want to call the phone your Secret Spy Phone or the Mycroftphone when you text. That'll be a bit of a giveaway if Sherlock ever lifts the phone, as he's wont to do. You should also keep it carefully concealed, of course.”

Mary's eyes narrow. “Are you sure this isn't just Mycroft trying to get me to exhibit more dignity in my phone naming?”

Anthea grins. "Could be both." She pours them more drinks.

* * *

After Anthea leaves, Mary unpacks, then goes for a run. After eight miles, she feels like herself again. Focused, in control. Upon returning, she reschedules with Janine from one phone, then texts Mycroft on the other.

 _The target must have recently started working with someone else,_ she tells him.

_` What makes you say that? ` _

_Kidnapping is outside his M.O. No evidence he’s done it before. _

_`You don’t think the men that took Doctor Watson were CAM’s? `_

_Might have been. But definitely an outside influence that made him try that tactic. _

_` Very good, Agent Morstan. Nice to see you sharp as ever, despite the personal nature of recent events. ` _

She makes a face at her phone. She’s doing enough worrying about her own capabilities; she doesn’t need to hear it from Mycroft as well.

_` Look into who that influence might be and report back.  ` _

_` If possible, however, try not to contact me for the next few hours. I will be spending the evening with my parents. ` _

She stares at the phone for a bit, wondering what that code phrase means. Finally, she puts down the phone and picks up her laptop. 

She likely will not be able to learn who exactly Magnussen has teamed up with without the help of an insider -- Janine is by far her best lead. Still, Magnussen moves in powerful circles, and he leaves ripples showing where he’s been. Scandals revealed, unexpected votes, resignations, donations, or other activities. She starts digging deeper into his recent paper trail, hoping to find clues.

She’s still absorbed in her work when John stumbles in. She looks up to see that it’s late, and stares at his pale face in the doorway. “Just another day at the office,” he says with the ghost of a grin. “Sherlock about killed us both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lisa E., Amy P., and AxeMeAboutAxinomancy for beta feedback.
> 
> And thanks again to Ariane DeVere for the [TEH transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html).


	5. Of course it’s a lie

John tells her the basic facts. His cheerfulness is out of keeping with the contents of the story. She makes him go back and explain again.

“I don’t understand. He contacted the police and bomb disposal ahead of time, but he didn’t tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Were they actually evacuating Parliament, then, while you were down there?” 

“Of course. Though they wouldn’t have got them all out in time.” 

“But he lied to you about all of that.”

“Yep.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a sociopath,” John says with a shrug.

Mary frowns. “You don’t believe that.”

John considers it. “No, I suppose I don’t. Neither does he, really. It’s just a convenient excuse.”

She thinks about it some more. “So, he made you think he didn’t know how to defuse the bomb, and then he revealed it was just a joke.”

“Some joke, I know. He may not be a sociopath, but he’s a bastard, for sure.” He shakes his head, then adds, “I think he really was expecting a much smaller bomb, though. And I think he was actually scared for a bit, before he found the switch. But he definitely let me think we were going to die for a while after he figured it out.”

Mary’s brow furrows. “Why, though? What happened while you thought you were going to die?”

John shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No. We just talked.”

She rolls her eyes. “What did you say?”

“He asked me to forgive him.”

She has a sinking feeling. “And you did?”

“Well, yeah. We were about to die.” 

“So he blackmailed you into forgiveness.”

“Yeah.” John laughs. “That’s about the size of it. Christ, only Sherlock, eh?”

Mary isn’t so sanguine, herself. But she admits later that sex with John is particularly excellent after he’s just been made to think he’s about to die. 

* * *

There’s the press conference the next day, and pleasant socializing with John and Sherlock’s friends at Baker Street, after. John and Sherlock are a seamless unit once more, and everyone is congratulating John and Mary on their new engagement, and everyone is happy (almost everyone -- she feels bad for Greg, who is clearly smitten with Molly and unhappy to learn of her own recent engagement). John and Mary make promises to see everyone again soon, and they head home.

The day after, she returns to Baker Street on her own.

“You idiot,” she says conversationally, walking into 221B. Mrs. Hudson let her in downstairs, made her promise to stop by for tea soon. 

Sherlock, lying in repose on the sofa with dressing gown wrapped around him and fingers steepled beneath his chin -- a habit she’s seen Mycroft employ as well, though with a more upright posture -- doesn’t look up. “You told me he would be more likely to forgive me if he thought he was about to die.”

She stands in front of him, looks him in the eye. “That’s not what I said.”

“It is the clear inference to draw from your statements. Now we’re through with that tiresome business and can move on.”

“Did you tell him _any_ of the things you told me?”

“It was unnecessary. Thanks to our impending death, we cut to the chase, and he forgave me.”

She throws up her hands in exasperation. “Did you even think for one moment about what you’d be putting a war veteran through? A man who still has dreams about getting shot and seeing friends blown up?”

Sherlock flinches at that. He stands, walks up and over the coffee table, and begins pacing. “John doesn’t fear near-death experiences. He misses the danger.”

“That’s true, but not the whole story. Do you have no understanding of mental health in the aftermath of trauma?”

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “I am, in fact, far more intimately acquainted with post-traumatic stress disorder than I used to be.”

She blinks. “Oh?” What happened to him while he was gone? 

Sherlock shrugs and stares out the window. When he doesn’t answer, she presses on, keeping her best nurse voice -- calm and all business. ”Were you wounded? Captured? Tortured?”

He nods. “Among other things.”

She swallows. “There are treatments you might want to consider.”

“I’m fine.”

“It might help if you talked about it, if nothing else. John sees a therapist, still.”

“I’m fine.”

She feels a strong urge to tell Sherlock about her own past. About the terrifying time when she was toyed with at gunpoint, and hurt in rather creative ways, by a particularly unsavory Russian associate, for instance. She can’t help but think it might get him to open up more, or maybe make him feel less alone. But she can’t, of course.

“Well,” she says. “I would think that, given that experience, you might choose not to contribute to the nightmares John already experiences.”

Sherlock looks at her, finally. “It is possible that I underestimated the drama of the moment, for both of us.”

She sighs, accepting that this is as close as she will probably get to an admission of error or an apology. “Just try not to make him think he’s going to die, or lose you again, would you? I think he’s been through enough.”

Sherlock nods. “I’ll endeavor to exhaust other alternatives first.”

She shakes her head, giving up. “Right. Want some lunch, then?”

He waves the thought away with long, dismissive fingers. “Not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” She lets herself out.

* * *

A few days later, John is late coming home from the clinic. When he returns, he has a DVD with him.

“What’s that?” Mary asks.

“Oh, just a present from Mycroft,” John says with a huff of unamused laughter. 

For half a second she panics, wondering why Mycroft sent her a message via John, and what John knows. Then she realizes it’s not for her. 

“You saw him just now?”

“Yeah. He abducted me -- I guess everything is back to normal, now that Sherlock is back. He let me yell at him for a while about not letting on that Sherlock was alive.”

“Feel better now?”

“Yeah, actually. And then he gave me this.” John gestures to the DVD.

“Yeah?”

“It’s an explanation of how Sherlock did it. For some reason, Sherlock chose to explain everything -- the fall, everything -- to Anderson. Anderson!” John waves his arms in disbelieving frustration. 

“He’s the arsehole in Forensics, right?”

“Yeah. Or was. Greg told me he’d left the force for health reasons. Apparently, he went a bit ‘round the bend after Sherlock’s dea-- disappearance. Had all sorts of wild conspiracy theories about how Sherlock wasn’t really dead. Not so wild, as it turns out. But I never would have seen that coming. Not from him.”

“Yeah -- I thought he hated Sherlock?”

“I thought so, too. But he started a club, of sorts, devoted to him. I had no idea -- he never bothered to invite me.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to cause you more pain,” Mary says. “Or Greg warned him off?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he just forgot about me. I was never very memorable, without Sherlock.” John shrugs good-naturedly -- nothing has seemed to bother him as much, now that Sherlock is back. “Anyway. Mycroft thought I might want to watch it.”

“Are you going to?”

John thinks about it, then shakes his head again. “No. You know, I don’t think I am. I don’t care how he did it. I forgive him; that’s what matters. I really would rather not spend any more time thinking about that time.”

She nods, sympathetic to his avoidance even if she could never be so incurious. “Well then, how about dinner? Want to check out the new Italian place ‘round the corner?” John looks guilty. “Or are you going to Baker Street again tonight?”

“Do you mind? I know I was just there last night, but Sherlock has a case --”

“It’s fine,” she says with a smile. 

“I could tell him I’ll come by tomorrow instead --”

“Go,” she says, pushing him gently toward the door. 

He hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“You haven’t seen your best friend in two years. Of course I’m sure.”

“Right.” He comes back for a kiss, then leaves.

One thing she has to admit -- having Sherlock back makes her work much easier. She hasn’t had to make excuses about seeing Cath in order to surveil Magnussen or research his recent activities. 

First things first, though. As soon as John leaves, she pops in the DVD.

* * *

When she meets Mycroft next, she has a flash drive for him. “Here are Magnussen’s recent activities and probable contacts,” she says.

“Anything of note?” he asks.

She sighs. “Not really. If he’s been working with someone new, it’s likely through an intermediary. There’s nothing suspicious or novel about any of his recent activities. And the votes and news stories that show signs of his influence are all connections we already knew about. He’s been quieter than usual.”

“Indeed. Which can’t possibly be good,” Mycroft muses. “Miss Hawkins has revealed nothing?”

Her mouth twists. “No. Janine won’t talk about work, even when drunk.”

“He hasn’t contacted you about your cousin, yet, either, I take it.”

“Of course not. I would have told you.”

Mycroft presses his fingers together beneath his chin. “We need more data.”

“I agree.”

“We may need to become more aggressive in our fact-finding, if he doesn’t take our bait soon.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “I do hope your personal life will not interfere if I need to send you out of town for a while.”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

Mycroft gives her a nod that she recognizes as a dismissal, but she doesn’t leave. “The story on the DVD. How much of that was true?”

He tilts his head. “What do you think?”

She shakes her head slowly. “It’s too neat. The story makes you both sound too much in control. Nothing ever goes off that smoothly.”

Mycroft smiles. “How true.”

“Tell me the real story.” Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. “Maybe I can learn something.” 

When Mycroft doesn’t say anything, she asks, “How long had you and Sherlock been working to bring Moriarty down? Since ‘The Great Game?’”

He rolls his eyes. “Must you really refer to events via Doctor Watson’s blog titles?”

“It’s rather convenient.”

With a sigh, he says, “Since the events of ‘The Woman,’ then, if we must. Did Doctor Watson tell you about her, beyond what appeared on his blog?”

“Irene Adler? Yes, I’ve heard about her.” John has had rather a lot to say about her and her interactions with Sherlock -- as well as the things she said about him and Sherlock -- while in his cups.

Mycroft nods. “I’d been attempting to take down Moriarty since he first made himself known, but it was after our dealings with Miss Adler came to an end that Sherlock and I began to plan in earnest. We had a multi-pronged attack. We captured Moriarty and attempted to coerce him into revealing information about his resources and plans.”

“Attempted?”

“As we had feared, he was not terribly forthcoming. However, we had simultaneously infiltrated his London associates, and had a mole among them. When he was recalcitrant, I didn’t press too hard. Instead, I traded select information with him, then released him.”

“Did your mole provide good intel?” 

“Not as much as we’d hoped. We anticipated having a long time during which to gather information, but he went after Sherlock far earlier and more directly than we’d assumed he would.”

“So you hadn’t planned Sherlock’s downfall -- and the literal fall -- right from the start?”

“Not precisely. We knew that we would need to send Sherlock after Moriarty’s network -- we would need someone as clever as Moriarty to tear down what Moriarty had built -- and it seemed it would be to our advantage if Sherlock were believed dead at the time of the mission. But as I said, Moriarty’s exact path was not one we predicted early on.”

“You fed him the information about Sherlock, though. The information he used.”

“Indeed. We fed it to him so that he would think the Holmes brothers were defanged, under his thumb. We predicted he would use it to try to compel Sherlock not to interfere with his plans.”

She thinks of John, wrapped in Semtex. “Hold his reputation hostage, this time. And meanwhile, you could get information about him via the mole.”

Mycroft inclines his head. “Precisely. We also expected that any confrontation he had with Sherlock would be in private, as it had been before. However, Moriarty’s obsession with Sherlock -- his vendetta --” he draws the word out and crisply enunciates each consonant in what she has come to think of as a Holmesian fashion -- “was greater than we’d realized. He pursued him far sooner and more publicly than we’d planned for.”

Mary considers. “So, the rooftop plan. When did that happen?”

“The details were planned mere hours beforehand, though elements were taken from various contingency plans we’d considered in the past.”

“Did you really have thirteen precisely calculated possibilities laid out?”

He smiles. “No. That was merely good PR for both Sherlock and the British government, I’m afraid.”

“But you did take out Moriarty’s snipers?”

“Yes, though we weren’t sure we had them all, at the time.”

“And your own snipers were ready to take Moriarty out on the roof, if he hadn’t done it himself, I suppose.”

“Oh, no. You misunderstand. The plan was never to take him out. We planned to recapture him on the rooftop, and to ask him again -- less gently than before -- about his global associates, and to pass that information to Sherlock to aid in his mission.”

“Oops. That didn’t go as planned.”

“Indeed. Our mole was supposed to prevent him from taking weapons onto the rooftop, so that he would not be able to harm Sherlock. Unfortunately, Moriarty became suspicious of our mole around that time and eliminated him. But the presence of Moriarty’s gun -- and his application of it -- came as a surprise to us all.”

“No wonder the mission took longer than Sherlock expected.”

“Quite. He was flying rather blind, unfortunately.”

“Did you send other agents with him?”

“I tried. But Sherlock has always worked alone -- with a single exception -- and he refused. He said my men would only get in his way.” Mycroft sighs. “He might not have been wrong. But I did worry about him.”

Mary digests all this for a while. Finally, she asks, “Why tell Anderson parts of this?”

“I think Sherlock was rather touched by Anderson’s loyalty, and his determination to uncover the truth, despite his inferior capabilities. My brother is a bit of a romantic, no matter his professed devotion to cold reason; I believe he felt he owed him an explanation.”

“Not a true explanation, though.”

Mycroft smiles. “No.”

“What about John? Didn’t he feel he owed John the truth?” 

“No. He felt he owed John cleverness. John has always shown he’s valued cleverness.”

“In this case, I think John would prefer the truth.”

Mycroft sighs, and for a long moment, she thinks he isn’t going to answer. “My brother deals with his own insecurities by constantly pushing away those who care about him -- especially Doctor Watson. He pushes them to believe the worst in him, and then watches to see if they still come back.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No-one has ever accused them of having a healthy relationship.”

Mary sighs as well. “John will always come back, though.” She’s seen it already, the return of John’s unquestioning loyalty and devotion.

Mycroft smiles tightly. “I suppose we’ll see, now that he has you.”

* * *

On Saturday morning, Sherlock shows up as they’re eating breakfast and borrows John for a case. John is gone all day. That night, he doesn’t show up for dinner, and when she calls him, it goes straight to voicemail. 

She takes advantage of all the free time to scan the recent video feeds from outside Magnussen’s office and residence and catch up on other work. As she works, she thinks about John. Is he all right? Mycroft monitors his brother -- surely he would have noticed if John was seriously hurt? Surely he would have told her? She's not as sure as she would like of the latter.

She texts Janine, hoping for distraction. _Drinks?_

_` Sorry - date night with Albert. Rain check? ` _

_Sure. Have fun! _

She sighs and tries to focus on her work. What if John’s not hurt, though? What if he’s too distracted to call home because he and Sherlock are -- jealousy grips her gut; she can imagine far too many possibilities. What if they’re doing -- something -- and John decides never to come home? She forces herself to draw and release a series of deep breaths. Really, the idea that they are having sex right now seems far less likely than that Sherlock has led John into danger yet again. What if he’s hurt? 

She shakes her head at the interminable cycle of worry. This caring about people is intolerable. 

She’s fallen asleep waiting for John when he sneaks in. He looks guilty as she stirs from her armchair. “Sorry, love.”

She blinks, disoriented. “What time is it?”

He sighs. “About half four.” 

“Did you solve the case?”

He brightens. “Yeah, Sherlock was brilliant, and there was an elephant, and --” He checks himself. “Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, if you like. I’m so sorry I didn’t call.”

She shrugs, then feels the stiffness in her neck and shoulders and winces. “I’ll survive. But I think the armchair beat me up in my sleep. You owe me a backrub.“

John walks behind her and starts rubbing her shoulders, and she closes her eyes and relaxes into him. “I should have called,” he says.

“Yeah, you should.”

“Were you worried about me?”

“Yes,” she admits.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He hesitates, working on a knot in her shoulder. “I should remember that I’m going to be a married man and not go haring off for long periods of time. I’ll draw better boundaries.”

“Don’t,” she says. 

“What?”

“I don’t think there should be boundaries, actually. You should spend as much with him as you need. As much as you want. Just -- just call and check in periodically.”

“I -- all right,” he says cautiously. 

“And John,” she continues, leaning into his touch but keeping her eyes closed, “There really aren’t any firm rules here. You should… you should think about what you want with Sherlock. You should tell him all the things you wish you’d said. And do whatever you both want to do.”

He freezes for a long moment, then resumes kneading. “Mary. You know I said those things about him because he was dead, and I was confused and hurt. I only love you, you know that --”

She cuts him off. “Don’t be a ninny. Of course you still love him.”

“But --”

“I love you for trying to reassure me, sweetie. And I know you love me. But I’m not asking you to pretend you don’t care about Sherlock. I’m glad you love him. I’m glad he’s back in your life, and that you’re solving cases together. And I would be shocked if you’re not still thinking about what else you might like to do with him. I have eyes -- I’m aware that he’s a ridiculously handsome man.”

“I.” She wishes he was better at rubbing shoulders while his thought process is stuttering to a confused halt.

“As long as you still want to be with me, I’m really not in the least bothered about what you do with him, you know,” she says conversationally. “I’m not worried about Sherlock, or what kind of relationship you might want with him. I am worried that you’re going to ball up your feelings inside again, that you’ll end up regretting missed opportunities. That’s really my only concern here.”

Of course it’s a lie. Of course she worries. John was happy with just Sherlock for years -- what if he realizes that he doesn’t actually need her, now that Sherlock is back? But she’s dead certain it won’t help matters at all to put limits on things. Making Sherlock forbidden is only likely to make him more tantalizing -- and fighting over John with Sherlock is the quickest way to lose him. Besides, she truly wants John to be happy -- to be whole again; she’s never seen him like this. Just, please, let her continue to be part of that happiness.

“Um. Are you saying.” John says. Then he stalls again.

She opens her eyes and forces herself to smile up at him. “I’m saying whatever you want is fine. You should tell him how you feel about him. And if you want to be boyfriends, if you want to bonk after a case, it will all be unbearably adorable and I will tease you mercilessly and demand video footage.” She winks. “I’m saying, don’t worry about it. I’m not.” 

He swallows and blinks down at her a few times. Then he walks around to the front of the chair and holds his hand out. He pulls her up from the armchair and snogs her deeply. “Right now,” he breathes, “I’m not worrying about it either.” He kisses her again. “Right now all I can think is how much I want you.”

“Good,” she says with a smile. And she takes him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of The Empty Hearse! Unfortunately, I'm going to need to take a brief hiatus at this point. I wrote the next four chapters, but then found some big timeline issues upon rewatching TSoT again; I need to take a week or two to remedy those. Expect updates on a Monday not very far in the future! Thanks so much for the comments, kudos, and encouragement so far. I'm so delighted that people are enjoying the story.
> 
> Thanks to [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy), Lisa E., and Amy P. for the beta feedback on this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks also so much to [cosmoglaut](http://cosmoglaut.tumblr.com/) for helping me to work out the details of the fall as discussed here by Mary and Mycroft -- and also to [violethuntress](http://violethuntress.tumblr.com/) and [finalproblem](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/) for pointing out so many issues and unanswered questions about the Lazarus explanation given in the show. My own story here may yet have some holes and inconsistencies; if so, they are entirely my fault.


	6. Better than wedding planning

Her life is full of things she’s unaccustomed to -- worry and domesticity.

One of her biggest fears is John’s safety. She worries that he won’t come back -- What if he’s hurt? What if he’s kidnapped yet again? What if he dies? He’s not allowed to die. She has to refrain, every time, from reminding him to take his gun and check in regularly.

The hypocrisy of it irritates her. She’d be indignant if John tried to limit her own freedom or keep her safe (not that he knows about any of her unsafe activities, but still). Danger is what keeps them both happy. But she doesn’t like it.

Still, she sends him out with Sherlock and feels grateful as he goes, even as she worries. Because it keeps John distracted while she does work. Doing her job has been ever so much easier since Sherlock returned. 

She monitors Magnussen, and sometimes she tails him in foreign cities. She hasn’t had much luck identifying his new contact with the kidnapping skills, but she keeps trying. 

Sometimes, John comes home sooner than predicted -- before she does.

 _`Where are you? Are you OK?`_ He texts at 11 P.M.

 _At Cath’s,_ she texts from Amsterdam. _Remember? She’s ill. Told you I was going to stay over._

_`Oh. Sorry, I must’ve forgot. `_

_Honestly, John. Sometimes it’s like you don’t even listen!_ Or like she never told him. _Too busy mooning over someone? ;) _

_`Hush, you. `_

_Good case? _

_`Fantastic. Tell you all about it when you get home. Say hi to Cath for me. `_

_Will do. ...xo _

He never suspects a thing. 

She has very little success with Magnussen. He’s become more careful over the years -- but more than that, she’s been forced to become more careful. Mycroft has tightened her leash over the course of her time in London, instructing her to stay further away from Magnussen the more they have to risk. 

So she sits and watches Magnussen enter and leave buildings through a telephoto lens. And she grits her teeth. And she thinks about John and whether he’s safe.

* * *

At home with John, her worries seem less real. Life seems strangely like a sitcom sometimes, she thinks as she prepares breakfast. She hums tunelessly to herself as she clears the table. (She stops humming briefly as she stares at the newspaper -- a major earthquake in South America, unrest in Eastern Europe, and an editorial arguing that Lord Moran -- currently under house arrest as he awaits trial -- was framed. She snorts at that one.) She sets their places as John comes down the stairs.

He kisses her good morning while still in his bathrobe, reaffirming her sense of sitcom, then sits at the table. “C’mere,” John says, patting the chair beside him. “I have something I want to ask you.”

Mary sits down at the table. “Yes, John, I’ll still marry you,” she says cheekily.

John laughs. “Not that. But related. I was wondering -- do you mind if I ask Sherlock to be best man?”

Mary stares at him incredulously. “Well, of course you’re going to. Who else would you ask?”

John shifts uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. But… he’ll have to give a speech.”

“So?”

“Well.” He sighs. “It will be embarrassing, at best. He’ll deduce and air all the guests’ secrets. Or insult everyone. Or possibly just us,” he adds, after a moment’s reflection.

Mary grins. “Sounds exciting. Weddings are usually so dull!” John grimaces. “No, of course it’s fine. And I should get my bridesmaids sorted, now that you mention it.”

“Yeah -- you asking Janine to be your chief bridesmaid?” he asks. “Or Cath?” She’s been spending a lot of time with Cath lately, as far as he knows; he’s continued to show no more than a polite interest in meeting her someday, which has been convenient.

“Janine,” she says. “But of course I’ll ask Cath to be a bridesmaid.” And won’t that be inconvenient, since she doesn’t exist? She’s dealt with far trickier situations, though. And she doesn’t actually mind a small wedding party, with just Janine on her side of the aisle. “What about you? Any other groomsmen in mind?”

John shrugs. “Not really. Sherlock is pretty much my whole life, except for you.”

She smiles. “I know. Lucky Sherlock -- and lucky me.” She leans forward to kiss him, and he pulls her into his lap for a snog. They’re interrupted a few minutes later as the potatoes on the stove start smoking and the smoke alarm goes off. 

John laughs and runs to open the windows. “Glad I can count on you to keep life exciting,” he shouts over the alarm. She wrinkles her nose at him as she rescues the poor potato corpses from the stove.

* * *

_`OMG YOU SLAG DID YOU JUST ASK ME TO BE YOUR CHIEF BRIDESMAID BY TEXT MESSAGE?? `_

_...Yes. Sorry. xo _

_`I’ll get revenge on you for that thoughtlessness during the hen night. `_

_...is it too late to change my mind? _

_`Muahahahaha. `_

_` Drinks tonight? ` _

_You’re on. xo _

* * *

She’s sitting in her home office and monitoring Magnussen’s latest movements when Sherlock shows up holding a large pile of books.

She has a moment of fear – he's come to confront her about her past. She sits up straight and slams her laptop shut. Then she shakes it off. He doesn't look angry. And the pile of books doesn't exactly scream confrontation. She smiles at him. “Oh, hi! Did you pick the locks again?”

Sherlock stares curiously at her laptop, then looks at her. “Didn’t want to disturb you if you were busy.”

“How thoughtful,” she says with a smile. She forces herself to relax. “John’s not here -- he’s at the clinic.”

“Obviously. We don’t need him yet.” He thrusts the books toward her.

“ _A Modern Girl’s Guide to Getting Hitched? Poems and Readings for Weddings?_ What’s all this then?”

He blinks, then says slowly, as if cautiously trying to calibrate his knowledge dispersal for more stupid people, “They’re books. About wedding planning. You will be having a wedding.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Got that, thanks. But… what are you doing with them? Are you lending them to me? Where did they come from?”

“Just popped round to the shop for them. We’ll be needing them. There are only a few months until the wedding.”

“Six months.”

“Precisely. Very little time to plan.”

“It’s not even Christmas yet, Sherlock. And there are a dozen books here!”

“I have more on order. These are just for this afternoon. I also created a YouTube playlist; there are things you need to see.”

She laughs. “Right. Let me put on some tea first, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer, having settled into a chair and cracked open one of the books. 

She resists the urge to take her laptop with her; that would be suspicious. Besides, it requires her fingerprint as well as her password to open. Sherlock can’t snoop, even if he wants to.

While the kettle is boiling, she texts John.

_Your best man apparently takes his duties very seriously. He’s here doing wedding planning. _

_`What? Now? It’s not even Christmas. `_

_That’s what I told him, but he seems to think we need to start now. _

_`That’s alarming. `_

_It’s kind of adorable, actually. _

_`But I’m not even there. `_

_Do you want to be doing this? _

_`Well, no, actually, now that you mention it. You two have fun. `_

_Will do. see you later… xo _

She takes Sherlock his tea, and he imperiously holds out his hand without looking up from his book. She holds out the cup, but he doesn’t move, and eventually she sighs and carefully maneuvers the handle of the teacup exactly into his waiting fingers, which close around it. She shakes her head slightly. “Who brought you tea when you were little? I can’t envision Mycroft doing this for you.”

Sherlock looks up, brow furrowing. “Why, have you met Mycroft?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Nope, just heard stories from John,” she smiles. “He doesn’t sound… nurturing.”

Sherlock sniffs. “No.”

Mary sets down her own tea and perches on the edge of her desk. She swings her legs as she says to Sherlock, “You don’t have to do all this, you know. It’s not required of the best man. Mostly you just need to help John pick his outfit and organize the stag night. And there’s a speech, of course.”

Sherlock frowns. “Do you… not want my help?”

“Oh, no! That’s not it. I just don’t want you to do it out of obligation… and frankly, I’m not sure why you’d want to do any of it. It’s not exactly a case.”

“This will be the biggest and most important day of John’s life,” he says simply, staring at her very seriously. 

Her chest floods with warmth, and she also feels a twinge of fear over how much he loves John. “Ah. Right. Well, I welcome your help, then.”

“Excellent.” He pulls out a book from the pile. “Have you thought about color palettes?”

* * *

Another fear occupying far too much of her mind whenever John is off on a case -- that she needn’t even plan this wedding.

That John will come home smelling of Sherlock. That the two of them will finally have stopped undressing each other with their eyes and started doing it more directly. That he’ll announce he’s leaving her. 

She really hopes that’s not how it would play out. She’s fairly certain she’s done the best thing she can by encouraging John to pursue whatever relationship with Sherlock that he wants. But if it is, she’d rather know sooner than later.

And it’s not like she can’t imagine it. Especially when John is away for days at a time (and she’s watching Magnussen infuriatingly refuse to do anything interesting), she imagines it all too clearly. After all, if it did happen -- if he realized that he could have everything he wanted with just one person -- why would he need her? She’s just boring Mary.

She starts running longer distances each morning in order to wear herself out enough to sleep at night.

* * *

When she’s not apart from John and worrying about things, she’s awash in unaccustomed domesticity.

They spend Christmas at Baker Street with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. They eat Christmas biscuits and drink punch, and they listen to Sherlock play the violin and Mrs. Hudson tell stories about when she was a little girl. Mary tries to get Sherlock to share stories about his childhood -- she’s dreadfully curious what he and Mycroft were like, growing up -- but the best she manages to elicit is “Dull.” 

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson takes Mary with her into the kitchen -- hers, downstairs, where they don’t have to worry about any experiments in progress -- to help with dinner. “It’s nice to see the boys smiling,” she says, bustling about and checking on the roasting hen while Mary chops vegetables.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” Mary says. “It must be so wonderful to have Sherlock home again.”

“Oh, yes! You have no idea,” Mrs. Hudson says. “It was very lonely here, without either of them.”

“I’m sorry John didn’t visit you,” Mary says. “I know he is, too.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Hudson shuts the oven with what seems like an unnecessary amount of force. “Bygones, and all that. Tell me, how long have the two of you been together?”

“Oh, well --”

“It can’t have been that long,” Mrs. Hudson cuts her off. “Now can it?”

“Eight months,” Mary says. 

“Oh, not long at all, then!”

“Well --”

“Do you really think you ought to be getting married?” Mrs. Hudson says earnestly. She pats Mary on the arm and then starts pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. “How well do you really know John?”

Mary stops chopping and stares quizzically at her. “I think I know him pretty well, actually.”

“Well, of course you do. We all like to think that about the people we love, now don’t we?” Mrs. Hudson clucks sympathetically. “How much do you know about his history with Sherlock, dear?”

“John’s told me everything.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure he has,” Mrs. Hudson says in a tone that indicates the exact opposite. “I’m sure you know exactly where you stand with him. Quite right.

“Well, I’m not one to stick my nose in where it’s unwanted, but If you ask me, you might want to wait a bit. Of course, I’m only telling you this, dear, because I myself married a man who turned out to be not nice. Not nice at all. And all because I rushed into things! I’d hate to see you making the same mistake.”

Mary’s lips quirk. “Are you trying to tell me John is a bad man?”

“Oh! No, dear. I wouldn’t say that. He’s a very good man -- for some people, anyway. But May is so soon, don’t you think? What about October? Or if you’ve got your heart set on the spring, there’s always the following year.” 

“Mrs. Hudson.” Mary says quietly. “I’m not stealing John away from Sherlock. I promise. I know how much they mean to each other, and I don’t want to get between them. But I do want to marry John.”

Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders slump a little, and she sighs. “Yes, well. I’m sure you know best. I do worry so about Sherlock, though, being all alone here. He never did know how to take care of himself, before John. And he’s been so alone, for so long. I hear him talking, sometimes, upstairs, and I just --” she shuts her mouth on the thought, pursing her lips and giving her head a quick shake. “But! Well! Yes, weddings. I’m sure yours will be lovely. I’m sure it will all work out for the best. And of course you’re not making a mistake or rushing things. Probably.”

“We care about Sherlock, too, you know. John will still come over all the time, even after the wedding.”

Mrs. Hudson gives another little shake of her head. “You think so now -- but marriage changes things, you know. Ah well. I can finish this up -- why don’t you take some more biscuits up to the boys.”

Mary does so with mixed feelings, and finds the boys deep in their own discussion.

“...won't come close to filling the hall!” Sherlock is saying. “And you don't even have enough for proper wedding parties.”

“We can't just magically generate more family and friends because the numbers don't suit you, Sherlock!”

“Maybe it's best that you don't try. Your friends don't even like you.”

“You always say that, but you're wrong. It's you that makes people prickly.”

“Who are these alleged other friends? You never see them. You never talk about them.”

“He does, though,” Mary chimes in, setting down the plate of biscuits. _Mike, Greg. James, Bill._ “I’ve heard all about them.” Though admittedly, John mostly talks about his Army mates when he's drunk.

“Well, I haven’t.” Sherlock reiterates dismissively, as if that settles it.

John purses his lips, his fingers alternately curling and straightening. “Yeah, well. You have no idea who I've seen or talked about for the last two years, do you?”

Sherlock looks abashed at that. Without another word, he spins and heads to the kitchen. John clenches his fists and wears the expression he has when he wants to go out for some air. Instead, he sighs, kisses her, and takes a biscuit. 

Sherlock returns a few minutes later with a cup of tea for John, and by the time Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs again, he's playing violin for them. Despite the moments of tension, it’s the happiest Christmas -- one of the only Christmases -- she can recall since childhood.

* * *

_Can I borrow some agents as wedding guests? _

_`Shall I assume this has something to do with the case, seeing as how you are texting me on the SSP? `_

She wrinkles her nose at the Secret Spy Phone, though Mycroft can't see it. _Your brother is worried about how few friends we have. I don’t want him to feel tempted to nose around my past more -- he might dig deeper than we like._ Truth be told, she mostly doesn’t want John to wonder why she has so few friends, but she doesn’t think that reason will compel Mycroft.

_`You’re not worried about Sherlock, you’re worried about Doctor Watson. `_

She sighs. _Okay, that, too. He thinks I have friends and volunteer gigs that don’t actually exist. Can I get a couple tables of friends? _

_`You know I am displeased about you taking time off for your wedding and honeymoon, yet you ask me to sacrifice the time of more agents. `_

_Yep. I also know that you’re traditional as fuck and will feel a need to give me a wedding present. This will serve. _

_`Fine. `_

* * *

In January, John takes her to meet his family -- or, at least, Harry and one of his local cousins. He hasn’t seen his father in years, and most of his relatives live far away.

She tries to get him to invite Sherlock, too; an evening with Sherlock deducing John’s childhood and his family’s secrets sounds like fun. But John says he’d like to give her a chance to make a good first impression without Sherlock there to make anger the general theme of the night. She’s forced to agree that it’s probably safer not to bring him.

It turns out they don’t need Sherlock there to start a row, however.

Harry’s breath when she greets them is enough to cause John to stiffen and look grim. But her hug to Mary is as enthusiastic as her smile, and her face is unmistakably Watsonian, so Mary finds herself grinning back at her even as she winces inwardly.

“Mary, so good to finally meet you! C’mon -- Ingrid’s already got us a table.”

Things get off to a good start with Harry, but less so with Cousin Ingrid. Ingrid first wants to see Mary’s ring and then brag about how her own ring was much larger. She then proceeds to talk about herself and her husband (absent, working late) nonstop for nearly half an hour -- never asking her a single question -- while Harry orders more drinks and John glowers at her.

“So, Harry, tell me all about yourself,” Mary says finally, breaking into Cousin Ingrid’s interminable tales of her own wedding and earning an indignant glare from her. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

“Aww,” Harry says with a grin, “Likewise. John doesn’t call me nearly enough -- shush, John, you know you don’t -- but when he does, it’s been ‘Mary, Mary, Mary,’ for some time now. It’s been a great change!”

“I was all that Eric could talk about, too, when we got engaged,” Ingrid gushes, and under the cover of another of her inane stories, Harry orders another scotch.

“Don’t you think you ought to stop?” John asks, dangerously quiet, as Ingrid chatters to Mary, oblivious.

“Don’t you think you ought to mind your own business?” Harry says. “I’m fine.” 

“You aren’t.”

“Am.”

Time to redirect before this escalates. Mary talks over John’s cousin again, ignoring her frown. “Harry, I heard you play rugby?” She sees John relax just a little.

“Yeah, I’m a hooker.”

“Harry!” Ingrid says, putting a hand over her mouth.

“It’s a position, Ingrid,” Harry says, rolling her eyes.

“It’s a number of positions, I’d imagine,” John says with a smirk and an eyebrow raise, which earns him a punch in the arm from Harry.

“I played scrum half in school,” Mary says, though she didn’t, and that leads to a conversation where everyone except Ingrid is happy.

Ingrid breaks into a momentary pause, finally, to say, “I heard you two met at work, just like me and Eric.”

“Yes, we did,” Mary says. With a smile and a wink for John, she says, “It was his mustache that first attracted me.”

“‘You’re such a liar,” Harry says with a grin. “Cor, that was the most bloody awful thing I’ve seen on a person’s face. Ever.” John crosses his arms and scowls.

“Wasn’t it, though?” Mary grins back.

“How’d you make him get rid of it?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Mary says. “Sherlock did.”

Harry howls with laughter. “’Course he did. You know, honestly,” she announces, drawing out her words and carefully enunciating them, “I thought John here was going to end up with Sherlock, for the longest time. Even though he claims not to like cock.”

Ingrid gasps. John turns very red. Mary reaches out and clamps a hand on his arm -- for comfort and to stop him from trying to strangle Harry. “Yes, well. Cock is pretty great, after all,” Mary says, earning a glare from Ingrid. “But that’s hardly the only reason to be interested in Sherlock. He’s quite a character, don’t you think? And the two of them are good for each other.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna have to disagree with you on the matter of cock --” Ingrid gets up and stalks off toward the restroom “-- but Sherlock is definitely something. Guess it’s a good thing you waited till he was dead to show up.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry!” John snaps. 

“What? He’s not dead anymore!”

“Just, just shut up,” John says. “You’re drunk. I can’t believe I brought Mary to meet you, and you’re drunk.”

“Lighten up. I’m just relaxing.”

“You’re an addict. You don’t get to ‘relax’ like that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Well, you certainly don’t seem to be capable of making decisions for yourself.”

“Fuck off, John. I don’t have to take this bullshit.” She stands swayingly. “Mary, you’re lovely, you’re better than John deserves, and if you ever want to chat without this twat about, give me a call. Good night.” She leaves. 

When Ingrid comes back, they briefly try to make conversation about how Ingrid quit her job because Eric takes care of her, and isn’t it nice to be taken care of by a capable man, and John and Mary suddenly both remember that they left the stove on and need to go home. 

“Well,” John says. “That’s my family. All the local ones, anyway.”

“I like Harry,” she says. 

John looks at her sharply. “Why do you always like the arseholes?”

“Don’t knock it -- why do you think I like you?” She grins.

John fakes a scowl, then sighs. “She was doing so well.”

Mary squeezes his hand. “Maybe she’ll sort herself out again.”

“Thank God for the family I get to pick for myself,” he says, and smiles at her. She kisses him, her only family, and agrees.

* * *

February is mostly dull -- clinic, wedding planning, repeat. Clinic at least keeps her too busy to worry excessively, and texts from Janine occasionally break the monotony.

_`GRRRR MARY COME SAVE ME BEFORE I COMMIT HOMICIDE `_

_Uh-oh. Your boss again? _

_`Yes. He’s SUCH a pig. `_

_Oh? _

_`You wouldn’t even believe the things he does. `_

Mary shudders. _Do tell…_

_`Sigh. You know I can’t. `_

_Well, don’t shoot him. I’ll come do it for you. ;) _

_`:) Cheers. `_

_Why do you stay in that job?_ For work purposes, Mary would like Janine to stay working for Magnussen. But as her friend, she can’t really advise it.

_`Because it pays well. REALLY well. `_

_`At least, that was it at first. Now... It’s just hard to get away.`_

Not for the first time, Mary wonders what Magnussen has on Janine. _What would you do if you didn’t have to work?_

_`Retire early. Go to the spa every day. Read. Write. Hold book salons. You? `_

_I think I’d keep working._ Though not at the clinic job, she adds silently. _But I’d travel more._

_`You’d keep working?? I guess maybe it’s different when you’re sleeping with your boss. `_

_Oh, yes. The clinic is just one long honeymoon getaway for us. But with extra acne, piles, and ingrown toenails. _

_`UGH `_

_`I think you have Stockholm Syndrome. Nobody actually wants a job like that. `_

_It’s better than wedding planning, though. The books make it sound fun but THEY ARE WRONG. :P _

_`I’m coming to rescue you after work for drinks. `_

_Ugh, I can’t. I have… wait for it… more wedding planning. _

_`I’ll have a drink in your honor, then. `_

_xo _

* * *

She and John brainstorm who to invite to their wedding, and it’s a small group, even after Mycroft has supplied her with a number of extra “friends.” Even if they invite the neighbors they know (Kate and her children, including the druggie; Alex and his boyfriend, Jake), their colleagues (Lily from the clinic, and her adorable son Archie), all of their actual friends, and an ex or two (she grudgingly adds David to the list, even though they haven't talked or interacted in years, aside from his favoriting every single one of her tweets), it’s not enough to suit Sherlock.

He paces moodily as they wait for John to arrive after work. “It’ll be distracting if there’s just a few people bouncing around in the huge church and reception hall.”

She smiles. “I’m not concerned about it. You’re doing all my worrying for me, I think.” 

He frowns. “This is an extraordinary event. It should be perfect.”

She raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Extraordinary? A wedding?”

He spins on one heel to look at her. “Not _a_ wedding. _John’s_ wedding.” He says it almost angrily.

She swallows. Oh. “Yes. And he's very nearly perfect, isn't he?”

Sherlock looks at her for a long time. Then finally, with a small smile, he says, “Nearly.” 

She returns the smile. Then she says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not trying to stop this -- for trusting me with John.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Trust you? I didn’t.” He frowns. “I called upon Mycroft to dig into your past, due to his superior resources in certain areas. He’s assured me that there’s nothing in your background to concern me.”

“Ah,” she says. That explains a lot. 

Once John shows up, Sherlock treats them to an hour and a half lecture on the symbolism of flowers throughout history, which he insists is a prerequisite to selecting their own flower arrangements. She finds herself yawning with increasing frequency, but Sherlock shows no signs of flagging. She gets desperate.

She gives a little jump. “Oh, is that my phone? Sorry,” she apologizes to Sherlock, who has paused mid-sentence to glare. She pulls her phone out of her purse and a name out of thin air. “Hey, Beth,” she says, standing and starting to walk toward the stairs to John's old room. “What's up? Oh, I don't know – let me ask John.” She turns back. “John, can I borrow you for just a minute?”

He gives her a puzzled look, then follows her up the stairs. She continues chatting with Beth until they're in the upstairs room with the door shut behind them.

“Sorry, who's Beth?” John asks, brow furrowed.

“Nobody,” she says cheerfully. “I just made her up.”

“You... what?”

“I made her up! Needed an excuse to get you away and talk about Sherlock.”

“You can't just make people up.”

“Well, apparently I can,” she grins, then curses herself for choosing such a similar name to Cath. Fortunately, John is unlikely to notice. “Anyway. How do you deal with him when he’s like this?”

“Cor, I don’t even know.” John sighs, sitting on his old bed. (It's still there, exactly the same as when he lived here; according to John, everything is untouched.) “I would have bet that he would have deleted anything about flowers not related to geography or poison.”

“Oh! So this isn't normal for him?”

John laughs. “God, no! I've never seen him like this.”

“Okay, that's what I wanted to know.”

“You made up that story just so you could ask me that?”

“Well, yeah. And because I desperately needed a break from flower talk.”

John laughs and shakes his head. “It's so odd,” John muses. “I think maybe I blew a fuse when I asked him to be my best man. He’s been … well, he’s been almost nice. Very nearly thoughtful. And also obsessed with the wedding.”

She smiles at him. “Yes. Well. Maybe you should find another case to distract him soon. It’s been a few weeks.”

“That sounds lovely. I wish Greg would call with something.”

“Or you can do something else to distract him – like snog him.” She winks.

“Erm. Right. No. Probably not. Erm.”

Mary kisses John for being so adorably easy to fluster. Then she says, “Guess we'd best be getting back.”

“What are we going to tell Sherlock about Beth, then?” John asks.

“That we invited her to the wedding?” Mary grins. “Actually, I'm pretty sure you can successfully throw him off the track by asking him about the symbolic meaning of some flower he hasn't got to yet – hydrangeas, maybe?”

John groans and she giggles at him.

* * *

The only thing she worries about as much as not getting married is that she will. And that she’ll perish of boredom as a result.

Though she never thought she’d say it, work is dull. When she follows Magnussen, she follows him at a distance of half a mile or more. She avoids any engagement with his staff -- meaning she can’t search or bug his hotel room, among other things.

Meanwhile, John is running around chasing people, fighting, and shooting at things. It sounds marvelous, and it’s bloody hard not to resent him sometimes when he comes home happy and full of stories.

And she can’t help thinking that this is how their entire marriage will be. She spends a lot of time contemplating marriage, and an increasing amount of time dreading it. Her life with John will be an endless succession of family Christmases and domesticity -- without even the questionable excitement of wedding planning to break the monotony -- and increasing work frustration. Her resentment of John presumably will only grow the longer she sits on her arse and does nothing. And if she’s shackled to him, she can’t very well request a transfer to a more exciting post elsewhere. 

And then will come motherhood, probably -- they’ve never talked about it; they haven’t actually dated all that long, when it comes right down to it -- but she’s sure John wants to be a father. John would make a great father.

She can’t see herself as a mother, though.

She can’t see herself staying in one place at all.

What is she even doing? Why did she agree to this?

Everything is off-kilter. Her sleep and her appetite fall off drastically. Her cycle, always light, starts disappearing as well. What has she let happen to her life?

* * *

“Can you just shut up about the bloody case?” She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth. 

“I -- what? Erm, okay,” John looks hurt and confused. It’s not his fault that he got to break into an apartment and spring a booby trap yesterday while she was on another futile trip, learning a great deal of nothing about Magnussen from a great distance.

“Sorry, love,” she says with a sigh. “So sorry. I just -- I had a rough day at the clinic, and I’m glad you were out having fun, and I do want to hear all about it. Just -- not now?” 

He’s out of his chair already, rubbing her shoulders, offering to fetch tea. She relaxes against him gratefully and guiltily.

* * *

She has far too many worries. She’s a woman of action, unaccustomed to sitting or to stewing. Some of the worries she can do very little about. But there is one part of the equation she can control.

She begins to make plans.

* * *

A few days later, she sends John off with Sherlock on a case that will keep them overnight. (“Are you going to share a double room? I think you should; I’m dreadfully curious to hear whether Sherlock sprawls across the entirety of the bed or deigns to share.” “We’re not -- he doesn’t even sleep on cases.”) After he leaves, she takes the Tube to the airport and rents a car under a false identity.

She drives to the middle of nowhere and leaves the car in a field, watching as the sun sinks behind the horizon. Then she heads for the only other thing out here in the middle of nowhere -- Appledore.

Mycroft Holmes would not approve of this reconnaissance mission. But with any luck, Mycroft won’t know what she’s up to until she has such a wealth of data about Magnussen that he’ll be forced to forgive her. 

And in order to get that data, she’ll have to break into Magnussen’s home, steal things, and escape, all without being detected by Magnussen’s security. 

It’s going to be so much fun.

* * *

She’s identified where all of Magnussen’s security cameras are, she’s fairly certain. She’s wearing camouflage and a mask just in case she’s missed any, though, and she picks her path across the grounds very carefully. 

Her heart is thudding in her ears as she finally reaches the outbuildings near the house. She waits several minutes until Magnussen’s personal chef walks past, heading home (Magnussen himself has left earlier this afternoon on several days’ business, so the chef will not be returning soon). Then she sneaks to the house and scales a wall to reach the roof. From there, it’s a simple matter to get into one of the exhaust ducts and shimmy downward into the kitchen.

She drops silently to the floor of the darkened room. (Much of the house is bright, open, windowed; the kitchen has the benefit of being one of the least exposed rooms, giving her time to get her bearings.) She listens at the door to the hall for a long time, hearing no noise, and finally creeps out along the hallway, which is dazzlingly bright after the kitchen. She moves from room to room, surveying the contents and keeping an ear out for Magnussen’s household staff and security. 

She’s not looking for something in particular, but rather for anything. He’s the world’s foremost blackmailer and the richest media magnate; he’s bound to have a great deal of valuable information, the kind she and Mycroft can use. She’s hopeful that she’ll learn about his mysterious new partner who helped him kidnap John -- but if not, she still expects to gain a great deal of information. 

Which makes it especially strange when she doesn’t. 

Room after room, austere, empty. Sometimes there are a few books or periodicals, but not interesting ones. 

Where are his files? 

Where are his computers?

She begins to panic as the minutes creep on, and her own creeping continues to turn up nothing except close calls as she dodges the household staff on their rounds. Her miniature camera for photographing his papers and the keyboard logger she brought to install on his computers sit unused in her pockets.

After far too long -- including a half hour spent mostly hiding inside a wardrobe while a maid cleans Magnussen’s bedroom -- she’s grudgingly ready to admit defeat. On the physical evidence front, at least. Fortunately, she still has one other option.

She doesn’t know where he keeps his information, but she can still find out. She brought enough bugs for five rooms in the house, which should be a good start. 

She’s standing on the desk of Magnussen's office, about to install the first one in the ceiling, when she hears the door handle turn. 

Before she has time to reach for the gun tucked at the small of her back, the door opens, and a security guard enters.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, walking in and wielding a heavy baton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me for leaving you on a cliffhanger. I promise there will be another chapter next Monday. :)
> 
> Thanks to AxeMeAboutAxinomancy and Lisa E. for the beta feedback.


	7. What you crave most of all

“Mr. Magnussen asked me to have a look at the wiring,” she tells the security guard in a calm voice that belies her pounding pulse, hoping that the whole house hasn’t been alerted to her presence. She glances around the room, calculating options.

“Oh? Is that why you’re wearing camouflage and a mask?”

She smiles. “Standard company uniform. We like to be distinctive.” The only way out of the room is through the door. The nearest weapon besides her gun is a hefty marble paperweight on Magnussen’s desk, at her feet. (Advantages over firearm: easier to render someone unconscious non-lethally; silent; not hers and therefore not likely to leave telltale evidence leading back to her.) “How’d you know I was here?”

He gestures with his baton for her to come down off the desk. “Saw someone entering this wing on the security camera -- nobody’s scheduled to be here right now. Nobody in a mask, especially. I’m sure Mr. Magnussen will have a number of questions for you. But since he’s not here just now, you can come have a chat with me and my friends for a while. Keep us entertained with more stories about your employer.” He bares his teeth in a predatory grin.

She reaches out her arm. “Sure. Give a girl a hand getting down?” 

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

She’s not going to be able to get close enough to knock him over the head, then. She sighs, grabs her gun, and shoots him in the forehead. 

She quickly replaces the ceiling panel (bug not yet installed, but no time for that now), then jumps down off the desk and examines the body. He’s over six feet and two hundred pounds. And she has no idea how long she has to dispose of him. Possibly a very short time indeed, if her gunshot summoned anyone else, or if the security guard told anyone else what he’d seen. 

She could just flee. But the last thing she wants is to make the already cautious Magnussen even more paranoid. She needs to take the body with her. She’s not going to be able to carry him through the ducts, though.

She needs a distraction. She smells stale smoke on the security guard, so she reaches into his jacket. She’s in luck -- cigarettes and a lighter. She runs down to the other end of the wing, to the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Without removing her gloves, she lights a cigarette and holds it up near the smoke detector. After the smoke alarm goes off, she tosses the cigarette out the window. The grass is damp and unlikely to catch, but she can always hope.

She runs back and uses her jacket to quickly clean up the blood on the floor. As she does, she scans the floor plan in her mind. (Deep breaths. Think.) Where can she go from here with minimal risk of detection? Where can she stow a body?

The outbuildings would be best. Some of them are rarely used. But no, can’t risk the time out in the open.

Think.

The garage is connected to the house. She’ll have to traverse a staircase. But it’s the best bet.

She hefts the guard’s body into a fireman’s lift. Staggering under the weight, she heads down the hall, away from the commotion that’s now converging on the smoke alarm. 

She heads for the garage. She has to stop a number of times along the way, setting the body down long enough to catch her breath. She continues to hear people rushing by, but luck is with her, and nobody sees her. The one good thing about carrying a dead body is that she doesn’t have to work to keep him quiet. She keeps herself as silent as possible and tries not to stumble under the weight.

On the staircase, she loses control. The guard’s body thuds down the stairs in awkward somersaults, and she very nearly follows. She’s sure, absolutely positive, that someone heard. 

After a long moment, she doesn’t hear anything. Heart thudding in her chest, she kneels to pick up the body once more. As she does, she notices the smear of blood down the carpet on the stairs. She freezes, but decides there’s no time to do anything about it and forces herself to keep moving. 

Eventually, miraculously, she makes it to the garage.

Magnussen is not one for fleets of fancy cars. His sole car and driver are out with him, and the garage contains mostly gardening equipment. She stows the body behind some large bags of fertilizer -- strong smelling, though they won’t cover decomposition for long, if the security guard’s corpse progresses that far -- and she leaves through the side door.

She knows she should sneak back across the grounds, slowly and quietly. She can’t help herself, though -- she breaks into a run and sprints across the acres.

She sends Mycroft the emergency code as she gets back to her car. Should have sent it earlier, but then, there are a lot of things she should have done differently.

* * *

For a long time after she tells him her story, Mycroft just looks at her.

“What did you hope to gain with these actions, Agent Morstan?” he asks finally.

“Information,” she says. “What we’ve been after, all this time. He’s not taking our bait, and we don’t have any more clue than we did a year ago what he’s up to. I took a calculated risk to speed up the process.”

“And what information did you gain?”

“Nothing,” she sighs. “And I am sorry. I was so sure that there would be --”

“Did you ever think to question,” he interrupts, “whether, if I believed Magnussen had essential information at his house, I could not have obtained it already?”

She blinks. “I -- no, actually. I hadn’t thought about that.”

He smiles tightly. “Let me remind you again, then. I have access to data that you do not.” He looks down. “I’m sure you are aware that you nearly destroyed years of work tonight. Not just your own, however, as you may have believed. You are only one piece in a larger set of lures I have laid out to attract Magnussen. I have placed a number of pieces of bait, and now the game is one of patience, of waiting to see what he does next, and in what order. I thought I could trust you to play your part, but clearly I believed so in error.”

She feels like she did when she was a small girl and had disappointed her mother. “I’m sorry.” 

“What did you believe to be the main purpose of your assignment?”

It’s an oddly phrased question, but she answers. “To learn who Magnussen’s contacts are, to learn what he’s planning. And to learn things that Magnussen knows about foreign governments and other important people which would also be useful to the British government.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And why did you think we gave you pressure points and brought you to his attention?” 

She wonders if these are trick questions. “So that I have more opportunities to get near him and gather this information, once he believes that I’m under his power?” 

Mycroft sighs. “You’re not wrong that those were goals you were given. But none of these was the primary objective. Once he thought he had you under his control, you were to begin feeding Magnussen information. There are many things that would be advantageous to the British government to have the world’s leading media mogul and blackmailer believe. While we genuinely wanted as much information as possible about Magnussen, the final objective was for you to become a conduit for information to flow the other direction.”

She tries to hide her chagrin behind her irritation. “Well, perhaps you should have told me that.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow skeptically. But he says, “Perhaps.”

She feels dread pooling in her stomach. “Why are you talking about the mission in the past tense?” she asks quietly.

“It’s become clear to me that I’ve misjudged you. You’re ill-suited to this work.”

“Oh?”

“I never should have removed you from Eastern Europe. You thrived in that post. It was more suited to your skills and temperament; you never deviated from your instructions. You will be flying to Moscow tomorrow to begin a new assignment.”

“No!” she shouts. “No,” she says again, quieter.

“No?” He frowns. “Isn’t that what you crave most of all? Excitement? Action? Danger? It’s why you’ve been unhappy lately, and why you did something so exceptionally foolhardy tonight. I can give all that back to you.” 

She feels tears welling up in her eyes at the thought, which makes her angry at herself, at her body. “Don’t,” she says, her voice steely as she clamps down on all her emotions. 

“Agent Morstan,” he says softly. “What is it that you want?”

She considers carefully. “I want John,” she says, finally. “More than anything else, I want John. And I want to stay in London and continue this mission. I don’t want to give it up, after all the work we’ve done. I will follow the rules, from here on out. I promise.”

“Sentiment,” he says softly. “I’d hoped you could avoid that fatal flaw. But so few can.” He looks sad for such a brief moment, she thinks perhaps she imagined it. “I should take you off this assignment. You’ve proven untrustworthy, you’ve gone against orders, and you have a pressure point that you were not meant to have. You are vulnerable.”

“I know you should. But don’t,” she says firmly.

He rubs his forehead and sighs. “No, I suppose if I tried, you would do something foolish again. Or if you didn’t, Doctor Watson would end up following you, and then my brother would likely do something foolish. You have me rather at a disadvantage, Agent Morstan.” He gives a humorless smile. “It’s something I’m admittedly unaccustomed to.”

She holds up her hands. “Nothing like this will happen again. I promise. I didn’t understand everything I was putting at risk. I was just… I was bored. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft sighs again. “Very well. I can ill afford to lose such a skilled agent and invest the time to get someone else up to speed on Magnussen.”

She feels relief wash over her. “I’m back on the case, then.” 

“On the condition that you report all your actions to me, and clear everything before you do it.”

She balks just a little. “You hired me in part because of my initiative and ability to act within the moment --”

He cuts her off. “Within reason, of course. But consider yourself on probation when it comes to making any plans.”

She sighs but nods. “All right.” 

He pauses for a long moment. “I would hope that, in the future, you will remember that I can always provide one-off opportunities for a skilled marksman. Should you experience any further boredom.”

She swallows and nods. “Will you have any trouble retrieving the body?”

He shakes his head slightly. “It’s already done. I had an agent living nearby and dating one of Magnussen’s maids; he’s run off and made it look as if he was the one that killed the man you shot. Jealous rage, a stolen gun, a struggle on the staircase, et cetera.”

“Thank you,” she says, feeling like an idiot, feeling furious at herself for ruining things for another agent and furious at Mycroft for not giving her enough information.

* * *

Anthea is waiting for her when she returns to the rental car, sitting in the passenger seat. Mary can’t bring herself to be surprised, but she’s not in the mood for company.

“He likes you rather a lot, you know,” Anthea says. 

“Oh?” Mary says curtly, starting the car.

“He would have killed you, otherwise.” She sees Anthea smiling from the corner of her eye, but Mary suspects it’s not a joke. “But here you are, alive and well, and still on the assignment. That’s impressive, after the magnitude of your mistakes.” The fact that Anthea doesn’t downplay her mistakes makes her grin a little, reluctantly. 

“You know,” Anthea continues, “when Mr. Holmes first considered whether to break into Appledore, early on, he never planned on sending fewer than four agents. He didn’t think fewer could possibly pull it off.”

Her spirits do lift at that. “Cheers,” Mary says. Then, “He never sent them, though?”

“No,” Anthea says. “He decided it wasn’t worth it -- that Magnussen is too savvy to do business in his home.” She frowns. “I told him he should tell you more. It’s not in his nature to share information, though.”

Mary feels a pulse of gratitude toward Anthea, stronger even than her irritation toward Mycroft. “Thank you.” 

They drive in silence a while, and Mary slowly relaxes. She’s still on the assignment. Everything is going to be all right. 

“How’s the wedding preparation?” Anthea asks, finally.

“Good,” Mary says automatically, then she groans. “Awful, actually. Dull and stressful, all at once. Sherlock’s a huge help, at least.” She glances at Anthea and sees her expression, and she laughs. “I know, I know -- not what you’d expect. But really, it’s going as well as can be. It’s just -- still a wedding.”

Anthea’s mouth twists sympathetically. “Having doubts?”

“No! No. I mean… Well. Yes, actually.” Mary bites her lip. “I want to be with him. But sometimes I’ve no idea why I even want to be married. It feels like a trap. Like something that could only work for normal people. You know?” She realizes she has no idea whether Anthea is dating or married or... anything. She looks at her curiously.

Anthea considers. “I think lots of people go through doubts about marriage, though. Even the normal ones.” 

Mary glances at her. “Have you ever...?”

“Have I ever married?” Anthea asks, lips quirking. “No.”

Mary realizes that she’s never asked Anthea about her personal life, and it suddenly seems like a glaring oversight given everything Anthea knows about her. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Anthea smiles. “Why are you asking me out?” 

Mary snorts. “Oh, yes, definitely.”

Anthea chuckles. “No. Who has time to date? I’ve no idea how you juggle a relationship and a job. Two jobs, even.”

“Do you wish you had time?” 

Anthea shakes her head. “No. I love my work. And I’ve never dated anyone seriously. Haven’t missed it. I suppose I sometimes wish I had more friends. But.” She shrugs. “I really don’t have time. And it’s not like I can tell anyone about what I do, anyway.“

Mary nods, thinking with a twinge of guilt about John and Janine. “Want to come to my wedding?” she asks.

Anthea gives her an incredulous look, and Mary reflects on the impossibility of the invitation. “Maybe as Mycroft’s plus one?” Mary asks, deadpan, and they both start to giggle madly.

“Thank you,” Anthea says, finally, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m going to have to decline on the grounds that it’s an appallingly bad idea, and very much against all the rules that prevent you and Mycroft from appearing to have any association.”

Mary grins. “Fair enough. But I wish you could.”

Anthea looks pleased. Mary feels lighter. They drive in silence.

* * *

A week later, when she fetches the post, one of the letters doesn’t have a postmark. It’s labeled, simply, _`AGRA`_. She drops the other letters and rips into it.

_` I know what you are. We need to talk. Bistro Pearl, 4PM. ` _

She texts Mycroft: _Bait taken._

She walks into the restaurant at the appointed time and finds it empty except for Magnussen, two of his guards, and the chef, who is waiting on them personally and sweating profusely. Magnussen is the only one eating; he has plate of escargot in front of him. His guards stand behind either of his shoulders, hands clasped, looking bored.

“Ah, hello,” Magnussen says. “Mary. Or should I say -- Agatha? Come, have a seat.”

She feels a tiny flicker of triumph that he calls her by that name instead of Gwen, the name she thinks of as her own. But she tries to look panicked. It’s not hard; she doesn’t know how much he has uncovered. How many layers of her past does he know about? 

She listens as he enumerates the truths behind some of her lies -- the child that she stole her name from; the car crash that didn’t actually kill her parents. He lays out for her her past with the CIA and enumerates every one of her non-CIA-approved assassinations. He tells her all of it with a smile on his face, as he chews his escargot.

“Tell me,” he says, “How do you think Doctor Watson would feel, knowing these things about his wife? Oh, excuse me -- you’re not married yet -- do you think you are going to be, if he finds out?”

“Please,” she breathes. “Please don’t tell him. Please.”

“Come here,” he says, beckoning. She stands and walks over to him. He wipes his mouth on her blouse sleeve. She jerks back, but he holds her in place by her wrist, draws her face close to his. “Tell me,” he says, “how does it feel to be owned? Do you feel a little bit… slimy?” He plucks a snail from his plate and drops it down the neck of her blouse. it leaves a trail of butter and garlic down her torso. He repeats the process several times, a smug look on his face as he does so.

She’s shocked at how violated she feels. It’s one thing to watch him from afar, another to experience it. She wants to pull away from him, but instead, she holds still and allows herself to tremble. “What do you want?” she asks. 

“Well, Miss Adams,” he says. “I have heard that you have a cousin who is in Parliament.”

* * *

She’s deeply unsettled on the way to the debriefing with Mycroft, but by the time she arrives, she’s pulled herself together.

“He wants us to set up a private meeting with my cousin,” she tells Mycroft, her voice brisk and business-like. “I take it that won’t be a problem?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft says.

“Excellent. So, is it time for us to move to the next step?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. We need him to up the ante, first. We want you to appear completely desperate. It shouldn’t be long; balance of probability puts it within a month.”

Mary frowns. “In a month, I’ll be getting married. And going on my honeymoon.”

Mycroft sighs. “Indeed. We’ll probably be forced to make our next move after that, then, I suppose.” He studies her. “And how is nearly-married life treating you?”

“Excellent, thanks.” She’s not even lying; she’s felt far less restless in the week since Appledore. Failure or not, the mission let off a lot of steam. And now that Magnussen is blackmailing her, she’s optimistic that things will stay interesting after her wedding, at least in the short term.

“Continue to keep me apprised of everything that happens, no matter how small.”

She nods. “Of course.” 

He nods, dismissing her, and starts to turn away. She can’t help a grin and a parting shot. “It’s a shame you can’t come to the wedding, by the way. Your brother turns out to be a fantastic wedding planner.”

He turns back and raises an eyebrow. “And what do you suppose my brother, the _wedding planner_ ,” the words drip sarcasm, “is going to do with himself after this wedding? Once his services are no longer needed, and you are off happily gallivanting around Italy?”

She sobers. “Solve cases, and look forward to spending lots of time with John again soon, I should hope. Look forward to spending time with both of us again, for that matter -- once we’re back from Italy.” 

Mycroft cocks his head. “You truly think that, don’t you? You actually like him.”

“Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“My brother doesn’t have friends.”

“He does. At least two of them.”

He frowns. “I hope that’s enough.”

“I think he’s going to be happy.” She wants it to be true. Not as much as she wants John to be happy, but she thinks the two goals are aligned.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “My brother hasn’t the first idea how to be happy.”

“Well. There’s still time to learn.”

* * *

It’s Saturday night, and the sun has nearly set when Sherlock bursts into the flat.

“John! I’ve found us an eight. Murder, John!”

He rounds the corner into their kitchen and freezes at the sight of Mary, preparing a dinner for one.

He scans the scene. “Where is he? Gone to see a patient -- a house call? -- ah, no. Harry.”

“Yeah. He got a call from the hospital -- she was in an accident -- “

“Driving under the influence once more, then. She’s not too badly injured, or you would have accompanied him. John plans to convince her to enter rehab again.”

She nods. “He won’t be back until tomorrow, at least.”

He hesitates. Then, “I require backup. Bring his gun.”

She doesn’t hesitate at all.

* * *

Hours later, after a foot chase and assorted counts of breaking and entering, they’ve tracked a murderer as far as Oxford when the trail suddenly goes cold. 

“Does this mean we were wrong that he came this way?” Mary asks, as they stare at where the predicted next clue has utterly failed to materialize.

“Don’t be obtuse, John,” Sherlock says. He begins pacing the deserted alley, muttering under his breath and ignoring her. Mary periodically catches, “Stop it, John,” or something similar -- sometimes angry, sometimes defensive. She watches in fascination and worry. 

John has told her how Sherlock used to talk to him whether or not he was present. But she never got the impression that Sherlock had a mental version of John who talked back. Did this change while he was away? Is he like this all the time, now? She remembers Mrs. Hudson’s mention of Sherlock talking to himself. She thinks grimly about the effects of torture, but also realizes that she hasn’t spent much alone time with Sherlock. She doesn’t know what’s normal case behavior.

John would know how to evaluate this, if he were here. She feels a stab of guilt at the thought. She's been skating by for hours on adrenaline and the pure joy of being needed for backup, and for her physical prowess. But now she wonders how she's going to explain to John that she took his place – that she followed his detective and barely thought of him for hours. She bites her lip and watches Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” she says at last, softly. He doesn’t notice. She repeats herself a few times. Finally, she gently puts a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, breaks his reverie, and stares at her.

“It’s 2 A.M. I’m knackered. Want to rent a room for the night and continue in the morning?” It’s not ideal -- all her things are still at home; fresh clothes, toothbrush, contact lens solution, birth control pills, and more -- but she’d prefer it to sleeping rough, though she’s done so on assignment plenty of times in the past.

Sherlock frowns but acquiesces. There’s a moment of awkwardness (on her end, anyway) when they reach the hotel room and find that it’s only got one bed. But Sherlock immediately begins pacing again when they reach the room, so she slips under the covers alone, still fully clothed.

She listens to Sherlock’s mutterings and tries to recall whether he and John have ever shared a bed. She doesn’t think so. She half-hopes he doesn’t join her in the bed, as it feels a bit of a betrayal to sleep with him -- even literally -- before John has, and without John even knowing. Not as much of a betrayal as filling in for John on a case, though. She slides guiltily into slumber.

* * *

Sherlock wakes her in the pre-dawn light with an excited gleam in his eye. “I have it! Thank you for your obtuse question last night; it was useful despite its misguidedness.” Without further explanation, he turns on his heel and leaves the room; she runs after him.

There follows some scaling of walls, a fist fight, and an arrest by the local police (no gunplay, fortunately; Sherlock has clearly deduced that she can handle a gun, but she has no desire to demonstrate her accuracy, nor to explain to John why his gun has been fired – though she was at least smart enough to bring his and not her own, which Sherlock might not be aware of). 

She’s giddy as they return to the hotel room later that morning. “That,” she says, collapsing into one of the room’s armchairs, “is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” 

Sherlock’s lip twitches as he looks up from his phone. “It was rather diverting. And you served adequately as an assistant.”

“Oh, well. Ta.” She smirks, aware she’s just received a tremendous compliment. 

“I’ve purchased train tickets back to London in just over an hour. In the meantime -- brunch?”

“Famished.” She grins at Sherlock.

She turns her own phone on -- having turned it off the night before for purposes of stealth -- and sees a number of missed text messages from John. While she’s been out having a marvelous adventure in his stead, he’s been dealing with Harry at her worst. She bites her lip, trying to think what to tell him. 

Sherlock reads the texts over her shoulder, displaying the by-now-expected lack of concern for personal boundaries. “Perhaps,” Sherlock says, “John needn’t know about this case.”

She heaves a sigh of relief. “Perhaps that would be best.”

_Sorry, love. Went to Cath’s for the evening and accidentally left phone at home. Sorry I missed out on the fun of hospital visit and verbal abuse. See you soon? xo _

She feels a strong stab of guilt -- which is a bit funny, she reflects, given how little she normally worries about lying to John. Sherlock looks uncomfortable, too. They don't make eye contact on the way to the restaurant.

Over brunch, though, her gut starts to unclench. Sherlock relaxes, as well. They laugh together and dissect their favorite aspects of the case, and she thinks how lovely it would be to do this all together, the three of them.

And why not? She and Sherlock -- this was the missing piece. She didn’t imagine that they could work together -- that Sherlock would let her -- but they can, and it’s marvelous. Sometimes John and Sherlock should have time alone together, certainly. And she needs time to herself as well. But that doesn't mean it couldn't sometimes be the three of them. 

John would like that idea. (Well, he might question how she came to be so skilled at physical combat and weapons, actually. Details.) And now that she and Sherlock have seen that they can work well together there's nothing to stop them. She grins at Sherlock giddily, and he grins back. He has a delightful smile.

Yes. The three of them together – it will work. Sherlock will stop feeling like a rival for John’s attention, will include her in cases now that she’s proven her worth. And John will see that she's not at all boring. She needn't be superfluous in his life, no matter what all he and Sherlock end up doing together. (And, oh. It’s lovely not to feel a stab of jealousy when she considers what all that could include.)

It will be perfect. Everything will be perfect. Just the three of them against the rest of the world.

* * *

She’s still coming down from the high that comes in the wake of a dangerous mission when she gets home. John, unexpectedly, is already there. 

“There you are,” he says. “I was wondering where you’d got to.” She pushes down a surge of guilt at everything he’s missed and makes herself smile. She reminds herself that this was a one-time thing, and that everything will be better for her and John going forward. Now that she’s seen how the three of them can fit together in each other’s lives. 

“Drink?” He holds out the bottle of scotch, and it’s clear that he’s gotten started without her. 

She fills a glass and sits down next to him on the sofa. “To Harry’s rehabilitation?” She asks, her mouth twisting at the irony.

“Hope it sticks this time,” he agrees. They both knock back their drinks. Then he sighs. “God, she was aggravating.” 

Before he can say more, she takes both their glasses and sets them aside. She crawls into his lap. “You can tell me about it later,” she says and kisses him deeply. “But mind if I distract you now?”

He returns the kiss -- surprised, but willing. “Not in the slightest.”

“Missed you,” she growls. “Come here.” She pulls him up and they stumble to the bedroom, discarding clothes as they go. She pushes him down on the bed and straddles his thighs, pinning his arms at his sides with her legs. Already rid of all clothing below her waist, she begins unfastening his trousers.

“You know what I want?” she asks. John smiles like he has an idea. “I want you to take me with you and Sherlock on a case sometime.” 

“Oh,” John frowns with confusion. 

She leans down and bites his lower lip until he gasps, then draws back. “Then I want to go back to Baker Street with you, after, to celebrate. And I want to watch.”

“Watch...?” She’s got his trousers open, and he’s hard beneath the thin layer of his pants. He inhales sharply as she strokes him through the fabric.

“Watch you and Sherlock finally stop dancing around each other,” she continues, watching his eyes widen. “Watch you kiss him. Watch you touch each other.” 

John’s cock twitches, and he sucks in a breath. They’ve never talked about anything like this before, but he doesn’t seem to be objecting. She continues to stroke lightly, so that he thrusts up against her, begging wordlessly for more. With her free hand, she pushes a finger inside herself, then traces her wetness across her clit. John watches, panting.

For a moment, she pulls away from him, and he cants his hips up so she can slide his trousers and pants down enough to free his cock. Holding his gaze, she says, “I want to watch him drop to his knees in front of you,” she slides onto his cock, “and wrap his lips around you.” John whimpers and tries to thrust upward, but she’s not allowing him much room to move.

She moves up and down, shifting angles until -- oh yes, right there. “I want to watch your face as he struggles to take your whole cock into his mouth.” 

John lets out a strangled “Stop!” and she does for a moment. “Too close,” he pants. But she’s impatient and on the edge herself. She starts moving again momentarily, and as she fucks herself with his cock, she starts rubbing her clit once more. 

“I want to watch as you come down his throat,” she gasps, moving frantically. He groans and pulses inside of her, and she rubs herself harder for a moment, pushing herself over the edge as well with a triumphant cry. They both move erratically against one another for a few moments, and then she collapses against him, boneless and happy. 

She drifts off into a lazy afternoon nap in his arms, experiencing a rare feeling of contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Axe and Lisa E., as always!


	8. Plan for the future

_`Who do you want at the hen do? John said to invite Cath. Anyone else? `_

_Cath can’t make it. I’d like to invite Harry, but I’m not sure if she’ll be out of rehab. _

_Maybe I should invite Lily from the clinic. Sigh. She’s nice but so dull. _

_`Fuck “should.” This is your night. It’s all up to you. `_

_`Besides, you and I don’t need anyone else to have a brilliant time. `_

_So true! Let’s make it just us, then. _

_`Perfect. `_

_Hm, that gives me an idea... _

* * *

“Stag night’s in a few weeks, yeah?” She’s at Baker Street with Sherlock, waiting for John to arrive from the clinic.

Sherlock grimaces. “Indeed. I have been investigating the traditional options -- pub crawls and strip clubs, as I suppose John and the others will want --”

“Don’t.” 

He frowns. “What?”

“Don’t invite a bunch of people.”

“I thought he would at least want Mike and Gary there, to give him the appearance of having a reasonable number of friends.”

“I don’t even know who Gary is."

He stares at her like she's dim. "The detective. You've met him multiple --"

She shakes her head. "No. It should just be the two of you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”

She ignores the question. “You’ll want to get him drunk. Not drunk enough to be ill -- just enough to slur his words a bit. And spend the evening alone with him. No strip clubs. Just drinks, and then come back here.” 

“Why--” Sherlock starts again, frowning.

“Trust me.” She grins gleefully. She knows how to get John Watson talking about his emotions. Acting on his emotions. She’s brilliant, and she’s going to give John the best stag do ever -- Sherlock, too, for that matter. 

She winks at the baffled Sherlock as John walks in, then turns and kisses the man she’s going to marry.

* * *

“How’s the program?” She asks Harry, sitting down across from her in the lounge of the rehab clinic. 

“Fucking horrific,” Harry says. “I hate being sober.” She grins wryly; Mary’s not sure how seriously to take her.

“Are you angry at John?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, wrinkling her nose. Then she sighs. “But I think he’s probably right -- it was the thing to do.”

Mary nods, neutrally, and bites down on the urge to say, _You were driving drunk, and you’re lucky you only hurt yourself -- hell yes, it was the thing to do._ Instead, she says, “How much longer are you in here?”

“Just two more weeks.”

“You can come to the wedding, then!” It’s three and a half weeks away.

“Oh, you don’t want me there,” Harry scoffs.

“Of course we do,” Mary says firmly.

“Trust me,” Harry says with a half-laugh. “John will be much happier without having to stare at his fuck-up of a sister.”

“He doesn’t think of you that way,” she lies. 

Harry snorts. “Uh-huh. I can see the disappointment oozing out of his pores every time we’re together.”

Mary’s mouth twists. “Caring for someone can be hard. But he’ll be sad if you don’t come.” Which is utterly true, and the primary reason she's here. She does like Harry, though. Mary studies her; she looks less confident after Mary's last statement. “You should come to my hen night, too -- it’s the Saturday before the wedding.” 

Harry’s face hardens. “I don’t need you to make me your pity friend.”

Mary shakes her head. “It’s not like that. I don’t have many friends in the area, and I thought maybe we could get to know each other a bit better. I liked talking to you, before, believe it or not -- and we hardly even got to talk rugby,” she says with a smile. 

“Oh,” Harry says, still looking a bit wary. “I… that’s nice of you. Sorry for being an arse about it.”

Mary grins. “I’ll forgive you if you’ll come.”

Harry smiles back. “Thank you. For the invite -- and for the visit. John has only texted.”

Mary nods. “We’ve been keeping him a bit busy with wedding prep, I’m afraid.”

Harry cocks her head. “‘We?’”

“Sherlock and I.”

Harry’s brows shoot up. “You’re letting _him_ help with the wedding? Cor, you’ve no idea what you’re in for.”

Mary laughs. “Oh, I have some idea, actually. Don’t you want to come and see whether it’s a train wreck?”

Harry grins, then bites her lip. “You know what I can’t figure?”

“What?”

“How you’re still together.”

She frowns. “Sorry?”

“You’re nice. John thinks he wants nice, but really, he falls for arseholes.”

Mary’s lip twitches. “I take it you mean Sherlock?”

Harry nods. “And some of his army mates -- you’ve no idea how awful they can be.” 

Mary thinks back to bootcamp. “Oh, I think I’ve some idea.”

“I don’t know why you’ve stuck around so long, but you should know -- John has a fascination with terrible people and terrible situations.”

Mary smiles. “Yeah, I’m aware. I guess I’m just lucky that he seems to like me in spite of my niceness, eh?”

Harry shakes her head. “I guess. I hope it lasts. You’re really, really not what I expected.”

“Well. I’m not Sherlock.”

“Well, yeah. Like I said before, I expected John to settle down with him. Until Sherlock died. And then --” she shakes her head. “After, I didn’t know if John was going to survive, honestly.”

Mary nods, biting her lip. “He was a wreck, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, you don’t even know. He crashed at my flat for a while, and I don’t think he ate or got out of bed for days at a time.”

Mary reaches out and squeezes Harry’s hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping him through that.”

Harry laughs harshly. “I didn’t help. He scared the shit out of me, and I didn’t know what to do with him. He wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t watch movies. He wouldn’t go for a run, wouldn't pass a rugby ball with me. For a while, I thought he was just going to stop everything. Permanently. I started going out more so I didn’t have to watch it happen. When he did start pulling himself together, it wasn’t thanks to me.”

Mary shakes her head. “That might have been the best anyone could have done for him.” Her heart aches for John all over again. “Sherlock was such a bloody bastard.”

Harry nods. Then she says, “He’s John’s bloody bastard, though. You know, John’s never going to stop being in his thrall.”

“I know,” Mary says with a fond smile for the two of them.

Harry studies her. “I don’t understand you.”

“Come to my hen night and the wedding, then. Get to know me better.”

“All right,” Harry says, but she looks away.

* * *

She and John and Sherlock continue their wedding preparations, and she even manages to enjoy it, now that she has a plan for the future. After the wedding, she’ll continue on the Magnussen case (which is much more interesting now than it has been in years), and she’ll start working more on cases with Sherlock and John, as well. She fantasizes about it whenever wedding planning gets too annoying, and it keeps her cheerful.

Sherlock, though, gets more and more nervous and upset as the wedding approaches. She keeps trying to push him and John to spend more time alone together, but Sherlock is so focused on the wedding that he doesn’t want to take cases. 

One day, after an hour of planning and Sherlock showing off his increasingly frazzled nerves via impressive napkin folding, she forces them to choose a case and take off for the afternoon. She heads home, meaning to do work while they’re gone, but she feels oddly tired and curls up with a book instead.

She’s asleep on the sofa when John arrives home several hours later; she feels a bit groggy and disoriented. Midday naps are not her usual pattern. John fixes them both drinks and joins her on the sofa. He tells her all about the case of the bloody guardsman, a grin on his face.

She smiles fondly at him. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re more pleased that you got to save a life, order people about, or see Sherlock Holmes stumped.”

John laughs. “Yeah, I’m actually not sure, either.”

“So how is Sherlock as a nurse?”

“Rubbish,” he grins. “Not to worry, your position’s safe.”

She pats his hand. “Well, that’s a relief. What’s the next step in the case?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. But he doesn’t usually get stuck -- or not for very long. I expect he’ll come up with a lead soon.” Then he quiets for a moment and purses his lips. “I, um. I probably ought to tell you. I tried to talk to him,” he says. 

“Oh?” She smiles and sits up a bit straighter. 

John gulps his drink. “Yeah. I told him that my getting married won’t change anything.”

“Good.”

“Then I tried to say … to tell him how you and he had both turned my life completely around. How much I need you both.”

She nods. “How’d he take it?”

John rolls his eyes. “Didn’t. He got up and left in the middle of my trying to tell him, and I didn’t realize at first. I don’t think he even caught any of it.”

The thought of John struggling to break his reserve, to come up with words expressing actual emotions, only to find Sherlock had wandered off, takes her by surprise. She collapses into gales of laughter, earning a glare from John. “Oh, you poor baby,” she laughs breathlessly. “Did he get bored waiting for you to manage to speak about your emotions?”

“Oi,” he says gruffly. “It’s difficult for me. Talking. And Sherlock’s even worse.”

She kisses his forehead, and he looks at her, mostly mollified. “Anyway,” he hesitates. “I’m not really sure I need to say more than that. I want him to know that he’s my friend, that that won’t change. But… maybe that’s enough. It’s been almost like the old days again, lately. It’s been. Well. Really good.”

“So there’s nothing else you want him to know?”

“Well. I’m.” John scrubs his neck and stares at his drink. “I’m about to be a married man.”

She smiles. “I’ve never been overly concerned with how things are supposed to work, you know. Whatever you want, it's fine.”

He looks up at her, then, and she sees in his eyes what he wants. He may not be able to say it, but it’s there. He shakes his head helplessly. “He’s. I just don’t know.”

She kisses him. _You silly men. Thank goodness you have me to interfere and plan your stag night._ “I’m sure it will work out, one way or another.”

* * *

Janine claps her hands together and says, “Oh! You look so lovely!”

The dressmaker, an old woman, steps back to fetch more pins, and Mary surveys the dress in the mirror. It looked beautiful when she first tried it on, and now, at the final fitting, it looks amazing. She grins. “It’s perfect -- thank you!” 

The old woman goes back to making adjustments and smiles at her. “Whoever you’re marrying is very lucky.”

“So am I,” she says. Janine rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. She still fluctuates between being happy with her boyfriend Albert and thinking romance is for chumps; right now, she’s in the latter camp.

“Hang on,” Janine says, “I’m buzzing.” She pulls out her phone, and a few minutes later, she’s making her apologies and heading out the door to handle a work emergency. 

The dressmaker also excuses herself to answer the phone in the back of the store, and Mary has a moment alone to admire her reflection.

The bell above the door jingles. “Aren’t you a pretty picture?” Magnussen says, striding in, and suddenly she understands why Janine was called away. Two suited lackeys follow close behind. 

Mary focuses on looking terrified. “Wh-why are you here?” she asks.

“Just curious to see how the preparations are coming along,” Magnussen says, walking in a tight circle around her and examining her from all sides. His breath ruffles her hair, and she shivers involuntarily.

He turns and begins rifling through Mary’s purse on the nearby bench. “I need a favor, as well.”

“Another meeting with my cousin?” she asks.

“More than that, this time. I need you to persuade him to vote ‘yes’ on the upcoming libel reform legislation.” He turns back around, something concealed in his hand.

“Persuade him how to vote? How am I supposed to do that?” she protests.

“Be creative,” he says with a smile. “He’s your cousin, after all.” Then he pauses. “Not your _real_ cousin, though,” he says thoughtfully. “A distant cousin of the deceased Mary Morstan, from whom you took your identity. He’s part of why you selected that identity, isn’t he?” She looks down and gives a small nod. Mycroft has altered the records to make it appear true. He smiles at her. “It’s nice to know someone in power, isn't it?” She gives another small nod. “And now you’re going to do me the favor of talking your dear _cousin_ into voting yes on this bill. You have one month.” 

“But we’re not close,” she says, upping the desperation in her voice. “He’s not even invited to the wedding.”

“Well. Still time to change that, or to find other ways to convince him.” 

He reaches out and strokes the arm of her dress, and it’s all she can do not to shove him away. “It’s very pretty, very traditional, isn’t it. And you intend to make the traditional promise to your husband, do you not -- your body shall belong to him alone.” She feels a weight in her stomach. Where is this leading? 

“But it won’t be true -- I own you, don’t forget. Oh, not like _that._ So dull. Just think of the things, though, that you can share with me that you’ve never shared with anyone else -- not even him.” He leans in until his face is an inch from hers. “Tell me -- can I lick your eyeball?”

She flinches, not having to fake it at all, and he laughs and pulls back. “Well, not now, then. We’ll wait until after the wedding, shall we?”

She hopes her trembling makes it look like she’s afraid. She doesn’t want him to know that she’s instead straining to stop herself from attacking him. He’s a hideous bully, and he deserves to be ground into the carpet like a bug. But she keeps her fists clenched at her side and her eyes cast downward so he won’t see her rage.

“Oh, come now,” he says, placing a knuckle under her chin and lifting it until she meets his eyes. “Why so sad? You’re about to be married. Here, I’ll help cheer you up.” He opens his own fist and reveals her lipstick. He removes the cap and twists, then slowly draws a dark pink arc across her mouth and cheeks. He stares at her dress a long moment, as if contemplating vandalizing it as well -- and she might actually punch him if he does. But then he turns back to her purse, replaces her lipstick, and pulls out her phone.

“Time for your first wedding photo.” he says. He hands the phone to one of his guards, then puts his arm around her and pulls her close. She fantasizes about spinning, kicking his kneecaps, and shooting both his lackeys before they can respond. Instead, she lets him clutch her tightly. “Smile!” he commands, and does so himself. 

Afterward, the phone is handed back to her, and she stares at her sullen face sporting the clownish fake smile, and the way she looks like she’s trying to pull away, but he won’t let her out of his grip. “There you go,” Magnussen says. “Beautiful. Something to remind you of our agreement as you prepare for your big day.” Then he leans forward, his mouth extremely close to her eyeball, and licks his lips. “Don't forget,” he breathes.

With that, he sweeps out of the store, leaving her still trembling.

* * *

Her first impulse is to go back to Appledore and burn it to the ground.

Instead, she makes herself go home and go for a run. Six miles before her head is clear -- before she’s ready to be sane and talk to Mycroft. (And truthfully, she'd hoped to run at least six more, but she finds herself too tired; the encounter with Magnussen took a lot out of her.) 

First, she devises a better plan. More satisfying even than arson. She will confront Magnussen on his home turf – not Appledore, but still, a place he feels safe. She will make Magnussen fear for his own life. Just briefly, before she must appear to give up entirely (because he will have another threat – men like him always have a backup plan), but oh, she plans to savor every moment of it. Just for a few moments, he will feel completely powerless. And owned.

She looks at blueprints and surveillance footage of the London office. The London office, which is nearly unassailable. Perfect -- he’ll feel abject terror when she breaches his security.

The desire to go now, to enact swift retribution, is strong. But she promised to be good. Instead, she sends a text on the Mycroftphone. _Target upped ante, as predicted. I have a plan. Sending encrypted file. _

There's a pause, and then Mycroft responds, _`I’ll consider it.`_

* * *

She’s regained her equilibrium the following day when Sherlock summons her to Baker Street.

“I’ve solved it,” he tells her.

“Solved what?” 

“How to fill the church and reception hall.”

“Oh?”

“The Homeless Network.” He smiles triumphantly. 

“Of course,” she says, not hiding her skepticism.

“Plus some clients who owe me. I have enough to fill the hall, including a couple who will look fetching in the lilac bridesmaid dresses -- don’t want the wedding party photos to look too sparse.”

Her lip quirks at the thought of a hall filled with more agents of the Holmes brothers than actual wedding guests. “There’s only a week and a half left until the wedding, Sherlock. There’s no time to have more dresses made.” 

“Everything’s doable with sufficient funds. Mycroft will provide budget to clothe them all appropriately.” 

She frowns. “He will?”

Sherlock smiles. “It’s a little game we play. He changes the passcode to his bank account periodically, and then we see how long it takes me to work it out.”

She shakes her head. Siblings. She’s glad she doesn’t have any. Speaking of… “Wait, where’s Harry?” she asks, peering over his shoulder at the new seating chart.

“She’s not coming,” Sherlock says dismissively.

“She is,” Mary insists. “I talked to her, and she said she would.”

“Hm,” he says, but doesn’t add her back to the chart.

“You’ll have to talk John into this madcap plan of yours, you know,” she says, eyeing all the new and unfamiliar names on the chart.

He waves a hand at her. “John will do what I tell him.” 

She smiles. “Yes, I suppose he probably will.” Then, “Are you all set on stag night?”

He looks at her, his expression unreadable. “Yes. And I’ve been doing appropriate preparatory research.” 

“Ah. Good.” She wonders what exactly that entails.

* * *

_`Ready for Hen Night? `_

Her Friday at the clinic has been long and dull, but Janine’s text makes her smile. Just one more day, and she and Janine will be living it up. Or she assumes they will -- Janine’s kept the plans a secret. Still, she remembers a certain threat about “revenge” in conjunction with hen night.

_I don’t know… should I be feeling a vague sense of foreboding? _

_`Worried about your past misdeeds toward me coming home to roost? `_

_Har har. _

_`Worried that you’ll tire out too quickly, because you’re no spring chicken? `_

_Har. _

_`Worried you’re counting your eggs before they’re hatched? `_

_?? ...What does that even mean in this context? _

_`Don’t know -- got carried away. `_

_Worried about being cooped up with you all night, more like. _

_`There you go, that’s the spirit! `_

_`But you don’t have to put all your eggs in one basket. It won’t just be the two of us. `_

_Harry’s coming? :D _

_`Nope - alas - but Cath is! `_

Mary blinks at her phone a few times. That makes no sense.

 _She’s out of town,_ she types finally.

_`Well, she’s clearly a good egg, because she changed her plans to come to Hen Night. `_

Mary numbly looks up from her phone to answer the question of a patient hovering nearby with a look like he’s strongly considering bolting. (It’s about his genitals. It’s always about genitals -- or arse -- when they have that look.) 

She returns to her messages later that night, hoping she hallucinated it, but nope, still there.

“Did you talk to Janine about hen night?” she asks John as they get ready for bed. 

He freezes while unbuttoning his shirt cuff. “Why, was I supposed to?”

She smiles at him, taking off her earrings. “No, it’s fine. I just thought -- did you tell her to invite Cath?”

He still looks wary, and like he’s preparing his guilty face for as soon as he can figure out when to deploy it. “No… sorry, did I forget something?”

She laughs and kisses him on the forehead. “I promise, you’ve done nothing wrong. Janine just told me Cath is coming, and I was surprised they’d managed to get in touch without help.”

John brightens and continues undoing his shirt. “Ah, that’s great! I thought she was going to be out of town.”

“Me, too.”

“Well -- I can’t wait to meet her!”

 _You and me, both._ “You’ll be busy, though,” she points out with a smile. 

“I guess I will be,” he muses. “I shudder to think what Sherlock has in store for the stag.” 

“Oh, I think you’ll like it,” she says, grinning.

“What? Why? Did he tell you what he has planned?”

She laughs. “Something like that.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “I can’t decide if I should be scared…” He leans in and kisses her while she giggles, which makes her giggle harder. 

When she pulls back, she stops giggling and looks him in the eye, “John -- whatever happens tomorrow? You have my blessing.” Then she can’t help grinning again and waggling her eyebrows at him.

John blinks. “Well, now I am scared.” But he smiles back and snogs her again.

* * *

John’s already left for Baker Street -- after she gives him one more kiss and a silent wish that he get a leg over -- when there’s a knock at the door. She opens it and greets Janine with a grin. 

Except it’s not Janine. It’s Anthea.

Mary’s grin dies. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She wonders if she can still text Janine before she arrives and forestall her arrival. “Do I need to come with you?”

Anthea smiles at her. “I think we ought to wait for Janine first, don’t you?”

“What? Why?” Has Magnussen discovered something? What do they need Janine for? Cold snakes through her gut at the thought.

“Well, it would hardly be hen night without her, would it?”

Mary blinks. She replays the comment in her head several times. Finally: “Ohhh! You’re Cath!”

Anthea smirks. “And you’re terrible at maintaining my cover!” Then she hugs Mary and comes into the flat.

Mary smiles sheepishly. “Are you joining us for the whole night, then?”

“Unless North Korea gets up to anything funny, I think we’re good. The boss told me that he found the idea of my attending pointlessly sentimental and foolhardy in the extreme. But he also gave me the night off.” 

Mary throws her arms around Anthea. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Anthea squeezes back. “Wouldn’t miss it. I wish I could make it to the wedding, too.”

“Well, I’m sure our boss will manage to video it -- so at least you can watch.” 

They’re still giggling when Janine arrives. “The famous Cath!” She and Anthea uncertainly start to shake hands and then end up awkwardly hugging. Then Janine turns to Mary, very somber.

“Ready for your last chance to party before you become terribly dull forever?” she asks.

“Guess you’d better show me a good time, if the prognosis is that bad,” she says.

“We will,” Janine grins. “Starting with… karaoke!”

Mary groans. “You’re kidding, right? You know I can’t sing.”

Janine grins wider and rubs her hands together. “Oh, I know. This, my friend, is what revenge feels like.”

“If you’re going to humiliate me, you better get me liquored up, first.” 

“Oh, yes,” Janine and Anthea say simultaneously, and then grin at each other.

* * *

The night is full of music, alcohol, and promises that can’t be kept.

Mary promises not to think about John at all during her final Saturday night as a free woman. (A moment later she imagines John and Sherlock in one of several interesting positions she has been contemplating lately, and she resists the urge to text them and demand video.)

Janine and Anthea -- Cath -- get along like a house on fire. By the time they finish the cab ride to the first bar on their list of destinations for the night, all three of them are giggling like old friends. “Come to the wedding, Cath!” Janine demands. “You have to!”

Anthea bites her lip. “Believe me, I want to. My mum’s having surgery Friday, and I promised I'd come stay for the weekend.”

Janine groans sympathetically. “Oh, fuck -- I’m sorry.” Then she brightens and winks. “If I call up the surgeon and convince him to operate a few days earlier, will you come?”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” Anthea grins back.

“Done,” Janine says, laughing.

Later, after a pitcher of margaritas, Janine promises to become independently wealthy and buy them a Mediterranean island. “With an enormous spa for each of us. And a beach… library… bar.”

Anthea and Mary giggle. “Sounds grand,” Mary agrees.

Anthea promises to pardon either of them if they ever need it.

Janine frowns. “Wait, what do you do, Cath?” 

Anthea smiles. “Oh, nothing much right now. Except work for a very demanding boss--”

“Hey, me too!” Janine interrupts to fist bump her.

“But I have ambitions,” Anthea continues. “How would you feel about a knighthood, Mary?”

“Not just now, thanks,” she says with a grin. “But I think you’d make an excellent British government.”

“Thank you,” Anthea beams. Janine blinks at them muzzily.

When it’s time for karaoke, Anthea and Janine promise to sing backup for her on “Go Your Own Way.” But Mary’s ability to carry a tune is so nonexistent that Janine laughs till she snorts, which sets Anthea off. Mary is left singing alone while flipping them a V sign.

Later, on the dance floor, Janine asserts that all boys stink. “Don’t get married, Mary! Run off with us tonight instead. We’ll buy an island.”

Anthea nods vigorously. “With a beach library bar!”

“Absolutely,” Mary says, grinning at them both. 

As time and ethanol continue to flow, Janine gets them to vow to be friends always. Mary knows it’s absurd, but on some level she feels utter conviction that she’ll find a way to make it true. She feels light and happy and like everything is possible. It’s no less probable than a lot of things in her life, after all.

She feels loved. She feels happy and excited for the future. She dances with her friends until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lisa E. for the beta feedback. And thanks to the amazing [inchells](http://inchells.tumblr.com) for this brilliant illustration of hen night! :D
> 
>  


	9. Enjoy your wedding day

It’s such an inauspicious beginning of her wedding day.

She wakes with a sense of foreboding and disorientation so strong that she feels physically ill. She sits, panicking, then remembers. She’s getting married today. And she and John have driven to the hotel where the reception will be the night beforehand so that they can get an early start. Sherlock will be arriving soon, and Janine, too. She breathes deeply till her heart rate stills, and she swallows her rising gorge.

John’s still sleeping. She gets up, washes her face, tries to shake off the residual nausea. She’s unused to suffering nerves -- but then, she’s unused to getting married.

Shivering, she slips on her jacket. There’s a vibration from the hidden inner pocket where she keeps the Mycroftphone. Her stomach tightens: this is it, she thinks, there’s going to be an emergency and the wedding will be canceled. But as she hides in the toilet and pulls out the phone, she finds it says, simply, _`Yes.`_

Mycroft has approved her plan. Finally. She smiles and bites her knuckle to help contain the joyful noises she wants to make. Mycroft has impeccable timing -- this, this is the right way to start the day. She grins at herself in the mirror. Hard though it is to believe, she’s beginning to think she might actually get a fairytale wedding and everything she ever wanted.

She suits up for a run. Even her wedding day is no time to go easy on the discipline of mind and body. Besides, she loves to run, and it’s meditative and focusing. She could use that right now.

She runs. The world feels more vibrant than usual today, the colors bright and the smells intense. After warming up, she does some sprints, but pushes herself too hard -- a common problem, for her -- and nearly causes herself to vomit. She backs off and runs a few miles at an easier pace, and her stomach gradually settles.

She returns to the room to find John up and showered, wrapped in a dressing gown. He breaks into a smile at the sight of her. “Oh, there you are. I was thinking I might have to do this whole ‘getting married’ thing on my own.”

She laughs and gives him a quick kiss. “I was considering running away, but then I realized that I’d miss out on seeing you in your morning suit and waistcoat. You’re going to be absolutely delicious.” She pauses, then winks at him. “So’s Sherlock, I’d imagine.”

John colors a little and laughs. “Yes, well. Have to match you. You’re always delicious.” He pulls her in for a longer snog. 

“I’m going to get you all sweaty and gross,” she warns.

“I’ll just have to join you in the shower, then.”

She grins. “Isn’t there some rule about not showering with the bride before the wedding?”

“Oh yes,” he says gravely. “I’m not allowed to shower with you if you’re wearing your wedding dress at the time.” She giggles and kisses his nose.

“Are you nervous?” he asks her.

“Not too bad. You?” 

“Not really. I’ll have you and Sherlock there with me the entire time. I think that should equip me for almost anything.” 

“Even the dance?” she teases. 

He pulls a face. “I think I’ll survive at this point. Won’t embarrass either of us.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “That’s why you spent so many hours holding Sherlock close and practicing, right? Purely to avoid embarrassment tonight?” 

He blushes. “Absolutely.”

“Well, I get the first dance, but I hope you dance with Sherlock later in the evening. I’d like to see what I missed out on at those lessons -- and the two of you will make a very pretty picture.”

John chuckles and scrubs his neck. “People will talk.”

“Let them.” She wishes, not for the first time, that her stag night machinations had been successful, but it will hardly be the last opportunity.

He smiles at her. “Yeah, all right. We’ll see. But first, we have to make it through all the rest of the day. Starting with that shower -- unless you’ll be wearing your wedding dress?”

* * *

“Thank you for choosing a flattering dress for me,” Janine says as she helps Mary into her own gown. “I'm hoping to pull someone tonight, and I'm glad not to look the least bit frumpy.”

“Still haven't forgiven Albert, then?” Mary asks.

“No, but he's wearing me down, slowly. He’ll probably sweet talk me into getting back together soon. So I have to get some good shags in now, while I can.”

“Well, you do look lovely. Not a frump in sight.”

“I'm just sad that Cath couldn't be here,” Janine pouts. 

“I know,” Mary sighs. “I wish she were here, too.”

“Her mum’s all right, though, yeah?”

“Yeah. The surgery went well.”

“Thank goodness. We’ll all have to get together for drinks, after your honeymoon.”

“I’d love that,” Mary smiles.

“Me, too,” Janine says. “And if I have to be the sole bridesmaid today, well – more attention for me, then!”

“Oh, no, actually – you won't be.”

Janine blinks. “What?” She blinks again. “Harry?”

“Nope. At least, not as a bridesmaid – I hope she'll be here.”

“Who?”

“I don't actually know their names,” Mary says, and giggles at Janine's baffled look. “Sherlock hired some folks so that our wedding photos wouldn't look so empty.”

Janine's eyes go wide, and then she starts laughing. “Oh, my God. I cannot wait to meet this man.”

* * *

She runs to the loo, feeling about to vomit, but it’s a false alarm. After, she finds Sherlock pacing the halls.

“Ah, Mary,” he says when he spots her. “I was thinking perhaps we should trade tables two and seven, because the --”

“No,” she says, patting his arm. “No more planning. Everything will be fine. You've done a marvelous job.” He eyes her skeptically, and she adds, “The flowers look especially lovely.”

“But --”

“It's fine. Really.” But he's nearly vibrating beneath her hand. She can't help but feel that Sherlock would be far less nervous, feel far less need to prove himself to John, if he and John had just shagged like they were supposed to during stag night. Still, no time for that now – it will have to wait until after the honeymoon.

“Go tend to John,” she tells him. “He needs you.”

“He was trying to call Harry.”

“Well, he's probably done now, and likely could use some cheering up.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods, then hesitates. “Is your stomach unsettled? Did you vomit? What quantity?”

“Sherlock,” she scolds mildly. “I’m fine, thank you. It’s just nerves. Go! Be with John!”

He nods and heads off down the hall. Looking stunning, as she predicted -- though also about as nervous as a bunny out in an open field, wearing fancy dress.

* * *

She's never been to a wedding before.

Her mother’s family was small – no extended family living in England, and her father’s side snubbed her father for marrying a foreigner. Her adult life never lent itself to weddings.

It's just like in all the movies, though – not tricky to get the hang of. She glances at the full church watching them, as the vicar begins to speak. So many people she doesn't recognize. It's rather touching that Sherlock brought them all here, garbed them and coached them, to make the day perfect for John.

During the preamble to their vows, the vicar asks if anyone knows of any reason why they should not marry, and Mary tenses, worrying for just a moment that Sherlock will take this opportunity to declare his love. But when she glances at him, she sees that he is glaring at the people in the pews, watching them all like a hawk. She smiles. 

Despite her fears, everything goes off without a hitch. Archie is the perfect page boy; he smiles and waves cherubically at the audience, earning coos from throughout the church. She and John speak the traditional vows, and she’s overwhelmed as she looks at him. This isn’t how she expected her life to go at all. She never wanted a wedding, never wanted to settle down. But she unexpectedly loves this man with all her heart, and she can’t regret the change in plans, not in the slightest. She cries happy tears (she usually can control her tears, but not now, not on her wedding day), and then she kisses her husband.

* * *

Taking the wedding photos is odder than she expected.

There's the oddness of having strangers in the wedding party (the extra bridesmaids turn out to be named Lindsay and Alexandra, but that’s all she knows about them).

There's the oddness of not having any family step forward for either of them, when the photographer announces the family photo. “Maybe she'll come to the reception,” she says to John, as he looks around, frowning.

There's the oddness of having to send Sherlock out of the photo when it's just supposed to be the happy couple. He's been such a huge part of this wedding from the start – such a huge part of their lives, and she wants him to be even more so, in the future. But she can’t say so right now, not without awkwardness, so she lets him step away.

She makes sure, though, that they at least get several photos of her and John with both Sherlock and Janine. She's so glad to have both of them by her side today (she never expected to truly count Janine as a friend, and yet, she does). There’s the oddness of having multiple people she cares about in her life, too.

On the way to the reception hall, John scowls and mutters to her, “Was she... was Janine _flirting_ with Sherlock back there?”

Mary laughs and kisses him. “Quite possibly. But don't fret. Even if Janine is offering, there's absolutely no chance Sherlock will take her up on it.” John looks dubious, even though it's blindingly obvious to everyone who's ever met them that Sherlock only has eyes for John. “I promise. Now, silly man, enjoy your wedding day.”

He shakes himself and smiles at her. “All right, I think I will.” He kisses her back.

* * *

They receive each of the guests, and Mary feels nervous again as she tries to keep straight who she actually knows, who she is pretending to know because Mycroft supplied them as a fake friend of hers, and who is a member of the Homeless Network that she’s not expected to know at all. Fortunately, the interaction is basically the same in all cases -- a “Congratulations,” a “Thank you,” and a hug or a kiss -- and John’s facial expressions make it plain when he recognizes members of the Homeless Network. Still, she worries that Sherlock will notice something off. Fortunately, he seems to be preoccupied with surreptitiously glancing over his speech notes and with conveying reminders to some of the guests (she’ll have to find out later why David looked so panicky). 

At last, they follow everyone into the hall. The whole ordeal has apparently taken more out of her so far than she expected. She grabs a canape gratefully at the first opportunity and lies reflexively about having lost weight to fit in her dress -- that’s the normal thing for women to do for their wedding, she’s fairly certain. John accepts the statement with a chuckle. 

She looks around and sees there’s still a missing guest. She puts her hand on John’s shoulder. “So, Harry?” 

“Er, no. No show.” 

Dammit, Harry. She had so hoped that she’d at least call. “Darling, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a bit of a punt asking her, I suppose. Still,” he presses his lips together, “free bar – wouldn’t have been a good mix.” She rubs his arm consolingly and tries to think of something to say to cheer him up, but then -- “Oh God, wow!” 

She follows his eyes to the door and sees a tall uniformed man, and she thinks she knows who it must be, but his profile is unmarred. “Is that …?”

“He came!” Sholto turns, and now the scarring is clear. John, elated, goes to greet him.

During his drunken recountings of his military days, John always spoke of Major Sholto with an admiration she’s otherwise only heard applied to Sherlock. To the point where she asked him, once, if he’d had a crush on him. John, drunk, had muttered, “What? No! No. Maybe a little.”

As she remembers, smiling, Sherlock joins her. 

“So that’s him.” She looks up at him. “Major Sholto.” He stretches the name out, making a face as if it has a bad taste.

“Uh-huh.” She wonders if Sherlock has deduced something unpleasant in Sholto’s past -- something other than the obvious -- that causes him to sound so disapproving.

“If they’re such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?” Sherlock asks, eyes narrowing, as John grins at Sholto.

 _Because you don’t get him drunk often enough._ But she can’t say that. “He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him.” 

She takes a sip of her wine -- smells odd -- as Sherlock says, “About _him?_ ”

“Mm-hmm.” The taste of it hits her, and she nearly gags. What’s happened? “I chose this wine. It’s bloody awful.” Perhaps there’s been a mix-up? Sherlock repeats his question. Or maybe the wine is corked? She eyes it suspiciously.

“I’ve never even heard him say his name,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit petulant. 

She feels a bit guilty, having admitted that John talks to her about Sholto. She is the one who usually instigates such conversations. “Well, he’s almost a recluse -- you know, since...”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think he’d show up at all. John says he’s the most unsociable man he’s ever met.”

“ _He_ is?” Sherlock sounds affronted. “ _He’s_ the most unsociable?” Ahh, she sees what’s going on now. (Slow -- she’s being slow. Why does everything feel off today?) “Ah,” Sherlock continues jealously, “that’s why he’s bouncing ‘round him like a puppy.”

Poor Sherlock, watching John heap affection on others while so worried about losing John himself. No risk of that -- neither she nor John is going to let that happen. She grabs his arm. “Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.”

Sherlock stares at her. “Stop smiling,” he says gruffly. 

“It’s my wedding day,” she protests. He rolls his eyes and leaves. She lets him have his sulk and watches John. He is a bit like a puppy. She grins and takes another sip of her wine before she remembers why she’d stopped. She sets the glass down.

The next time she sees Sherlock, he’s on the phone -- she overhears just enough to know he’s trying to convince Mycroft to attend. It’s a lost cause; Mycroft won’t get anywhere near her if he can help it. It’s not only against work policies, it’s just generally a bad idea. She rather thinks, though, that Sherlock will be pleased not to have Mycroft there later, if she succeeds at getting John and Sherlock to dance together.

First, though, there’s dinner to get through, and the speech. That should be interesting.

* * *

Dinner is very good -- so good that she’s tempted to ask for seconds. She laughs with John throughout the meal -- on her other side are Lindsay and Alexandra, who appear to be happily flirting with one another and don’t require her attention at all -- and she helps John try to calm Sherlock down as he grows increasingly antsy during dessert. 

Then it’s time for the speech.

It gets off to a very inauspicious start as Sherlock stutters through his intro and comes to a halt. She watches John staring questioningly at Sherlock and wonders how she can help, and then John mutters, “Telegrams,” and shakes his head. It seems to be the prompt Sherlock needs.

The telegrams are amusing -- watching Sherlock say “big squishy cuddles” and “poppet” nearly sends her into uncontrolled laughter. 

Then he reads one from “CAM” -- “Wish your family could have seen this” -- and she goes cold. Is he referencing the falseness of her orphan story, or the fact that she didn’t invite her cousin, the MP? Either way, it’s a threat. Which is fine, she reminds herself. This is what they want. She tries to buck up as John frowns and takes her hand. 

Still, it would have been nice to have just this one day without thinking about Magnussen. She steals a quick glance at Janine to see whether she picked up on her boss’s initials, but of course she didn’t. She’s staring up at Sherlock with a skeptical look on her face as Sherlock dismisses the rest of the telegrams.

Mary pulls herself back together as Sherlock launches into his prepared speech. He begins by repeating John’s name several times. From there, the speech careens all over the place.

First, Sherlock proves to be the most unreliable of narrators. Mary watches John’s face as Sherlock recounts his highly verbose and entirely fictional response to having been asked to be best man. (He does eventually admit to not having responded so articulately aloud.) Next, he insults weddings, love, John, the bridesmaids, and the vicar -- and then he somehow turns it around into an insult to himself and a compliment to John -- “the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.” 

Mary smiles at that, and at her husband, who is all those things. She beams wider still as Sherlock tells her that she deserves John. She expected congratulations, but not such unreserved endorsement, and she feels a huge pulse of warmth and gratitude. Whatever Sherlock thinks he knows about her past, he thinks she’s deserving of John -- she agrees with Sherlock that there is no higher compliment.

And then, to top it all off, Sherlock says, “Today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world.” She feels herself tearing up at that, and she’s so glad that Sherlock is acknowledging it, “specious and irrational and sentimental” be damned. “And I know I speak for Mary as well,” he continues, “when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

Oh, God. She squeezes John’s arm harder. Did John hear that? Sherlock has just declared his lifetime devotion to John. She has a brief vision of all of them living together at the flat on Baker Street.

John says, “If I try to hug him, stop me,” to which she of course responds, “Certainly not.” Sherlock follows up his masterful piece of wordcraft and emotion with a complete failure to comprehend its effects on the audience, as he questions why people are crying. Then John is standing and pulling him into a hug. The audience applauds.

As far as Mary is concerned, the speech could end there. But Sherlock feels bound to include “funny stories” about John, which mostly include a string of cases -- some unsolved, some confidential, many lacking in detail or not making much sense. The audience is confused and restless in turn, but Mary enjoys watching John’s responses to the descriptions of the cases. John positively lights up -- and sometimes giggles -- at things that mean nothing to anyone else.

Toward the end of the meandering speech -- which seems like it lasts well over an hour, but she supposes is probably only twenty minutes or so -- Sherlock hits a slightly sour note about “suffocating chains of domesticity” and infidelity, then once again touchingly compliments John: “I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that – I should know. He’s saved mine so many times, and in so many ways.”

While she has enjoyed watching John’s and the audience’s responses to the speech’s swerving trajectory and frequent insults, Mary is relieved when Sherlock at last raises his champagne flute.

Then he drops the glass.

He tells everyone to sit again. He looks confused, he vaults the table, he babbles -- what on earth is he doing? 

“Something is wrong,” John says. Which rapidly becomes obvious to everyone, as Sherlock becomes less coherent and finally starts shouting: “Too many, too many, too many, too many!” She doesn’t really believe he’s talking about jokes about John anymore. But what is he doing?

The tension in the room builds as everyone watches Sherlock uneasily. “Let’s talk about murder!” he says, and there are a few gasps from the crowd. But mostly they seem far less worried about the possibility of murder than the possibility that they may be watching a man in the process of a nervous breakdown.

Mary can tell that’s not what’s happening -- she can see Sherlock examining the crowd, signalling to Lestrade, and she knows he’s looking for something. But what? And how can she and John help? She tries to keep an amused smile to help keep the other guests calm.

John, also watching Sherlock carefully, puts out a cautious feeler. “Any chance of an end date for this speech?” He tries to keep it light, adding a joke about cake, but there’s strain in his voice.

Sherlock turns and half-dances toward them. “Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos.” Someday she may have to congratulate him on the clumsiest deployment of a code phrase in history. 

“What did he say?” She asks John. “What’s that mean?”

“Battle stations. Someone’s going to die.”

“What?!” That’s worse than she’d hoped. She desperately wants her gun, and she curses the stupidity of wedding dresses for lacking pockets or places to conceal weapons. 

Sherlock starts slapping himself and shouting (and oh, that’s no good at all -- more mental scars incurred during his time away?). She catches the eye of one of Mycroft’s other agents in the audience. He looks coiled and ready to spring into action -- probably to take Sherlock down, from the looks of him. She shakes her head at him imperceptibly, and tugs on her ear in the signal for “stand down,” hoping the other agents catch it. The last thing they need right now is someone tackling Sherlock -- or doing worse. 

Sherlock reins himself in a bit and walks back toward John. “You. It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.” 

John stands, asks, “What do I do?”

“Well. You’ve already done it. Don’t solve the murder. Save the life.” Sherlock is talking to John, but clearly meaning it more for himself. He turns and paces back down the aisle, talking about murder. He babbles, and she’s not even paying attention anymore -- she’s just watching the crowd for anything. Anyone with a weapon or a glint in their eye. Anything off.

There’s nothing, though -- nothing but confusion. Sherlock stutters and pauses. Archie pipes up about an invisible man. Sholto stands to leave -- what did Sherlock’s note say? Sherlock abruptly makes a toast, with the audience barely keeping up. then turns to her and John. “Major Sholto’s going to be murdered,” he tells them. “ I don’t know how or by whom, but it’s going to happen.” 

As Sherlock dashes off, John kisses her. “Stay here,” he tells her, as she begs him to be careful. Then he’s off, following Sherlock.

Mary considers for half a moment whether it’s wise to risk blowing her cover at her own wedding by trying to intervene in a murder. Then she’s running after them and trying not to grin. She never in her wildest dreams imagined her wedding day would be this exciting.

It’s a good thing she follows them, because she remembers Sholto’s room number when Sherlock doesn’t. And then they’re all sprinting at once -- curse this dress. 

They need her there, too -- the two romantics, frantic and fighting and too frightened to think straight. They need her, the pragmatist, to focus them. “Solve it,” she orders Sherlock. To be fair, Sholto said it first -- but John listens to her, and Sherlock listens to John.

“Solve it, and he’ll open the door, like he said.”

Sherlock balks. “If I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?”

“Because it matters now.”

And then John sees she’s right, and repeats it (attaching the epithet of “drama queen”), and so Sherlock does solve it. (After saying, “Get your wife under control,” about which they’ll be having words -- but not right now.)

She sees the epiphany happen, and then Sherlock grabs her face and kisses her forehead. “Though, in fairness, he’s a drama queen, too.” 

She smiles. “Yeah, I know.”

She feels elation -- it’s solved! their first case all together! -- but it’s premature. Sholto has to be talked down from the ledge. Sherlock, surprisingly, is the one to do it. Sherlock has learned the hard way what will destroy John Watson, and he’s not going to let anyone else do so.

She sags with relief when Sholto opens the door. And then she and John rush in to treat him until the ambulance Sherlock has summoned arrives. It wouldn’t be necessary, except that Sholto has shifted his belt, fiddled with the buckle, and the wound has been disturbed. She and John stanch the bleeding, check his vitals, and keep him still until emergency services can take over. At that point, John wants to accompany him, but Sholto makes him promise to remain.

After the stretcher is carried out (and after Sherlock applies an unknown chemical compound to remove a spot of blood from her wedding dress), but before they return downstairs, the three of them take a moment and grin at each other giddily, high on adrenaline. 

“Best wedding ever?” she jokes, without it really being a joke. 

“Yeah -- nobody dead, and not the least bit boring.” John grins back.

Sherlock beams. “Excellent. Well, I suppose we owe the wedding guests a dance, then.”

“And an explanation,” Mary adds. Sherlock shrugs.

“It’ll make a good blog entry.” John smiles.

Downstairs, Sherlock helps Lestrade make the arrest (the photographer, brilliant -- she wouldn’t have thought of that), while Mary reassures the guests and gives Mycroft’s agents the “all clear” signal. Then, after, there is the dance.

Neither she nor John have heard the piece ahead of time; Sherlock has saved it as a surprise. And it’s gorgeous -- so gorgeous it makes her ache. Sherlock plays beautifully, and she dances with her perfect husband, and everything fades away until it’s just the three of them. She can’t stop smiling. John dips her at the end, and they laugh, and the crowd returns in a roar of applause. 

The whole world is right as Sherlock steps to the microphone. He apologizes for the earlier drama, and she smiles at him and at John in turn.

“More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows,” Sherlock continues. She and John exchange quizzical glances. “I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow.” 

She feels nervous -- a surprise vow -- but tries to smile encouragingly. “Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you.”

But surely he means “All three of us?” More and more, that’s how it looks to be -- the three of them, a team. Surely he misspoke. “Er, I’m sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All two of you. Both of you, in fact. I’ve just miscounted.” She exchanges glances with John again.

Sherlock babbles once more, asking the DJ for music and ordering the guests to dance. He makes his way over to her and John. “Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting.”

“‘Deduction’?” she asks.

“Increased appetite, change of taste perception, and you were sick this morning. You assumed it was just wedding nerves. You got angry when I mentioned it to you. All the signs are there.”

She experiences a sinking feeling in her stomach. “The signs?” No. She refuses to follow the line of thought. No.

“The signs of three,” Sherlock explains, glancing down at her belly.

“What?!” No!

“Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test.”

John doubles over, and she tries to grin through her terror. Scenes flash through her mind -- the missed birth control pill while she was on the case with Sherlock, sex with John the next day -- no no no. 

Sherlock babbles about statistics in the first trimester, and John tells him to shut up. “How did he notice before me?” John asks, turning to her. “I’m a bloody doctor.”

She’s paralyzed, can’t answer. It’s Sherlock who responds, “It’s your day off.”

“It’s your day off!” John shouts back nonsensically.

“Stop -- stop panicking,” Sherlock says.

“I’m not panicking,” John replies.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, finally. “I’m panicking.” Fuck.

“Don’t panic,” Sherlock orders, and John snipes at him a bit. “You’re already the best parents in the world,” Sherlock points out. “Look at all the practice you’ve had!”

“What practice?” John demands.

“Well, you’re hardly going to need me around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way.“ John laughs, and he and Sherlock grin at each other, John grabbing the back of his neck. As John turns toward her, she puts on her best smile and tells him she’s all right. 

Sherlock smiles at her. They stare at each other for a long moment, thinly veiled panic behind both their grins. Only John is genuinely happy.

Sherlock sobers and tells them to go dance. “We can’t just stand here. People will wonder what we’re talking about.”

As always, John responds quickly to what people will talk about. But she’s nearly crying now, because this is all wrong. It’s supposed to be John and Sherlock dancing now, and oh, God, what are they going to do with a baby? 

“What about you?” she asks Sherlock weakly, choking up.

“Well, we can’t all three dance,” John says. “There are limits!”

“Yes, there are,” Sherlock dutifully agrees.

Mary is still too overwhelmed to protest. Fine, if this is how they want to play it. (John is obviously overwhelmed, too -- begins babbling again about Sherlock’s dance lessons, as if she doesn’t know.) She and John will dance once more, and she’ll compose herself. Everything will be fine.

But she doesn’t, and it’s not. The rest of the night is a sickening carnival; she feels half dazed and half ill as she whirls through the crowd. She forces herself to smile at John, at Janine, at everyone -- but she can’t tell the difference anymore between the real and the fake guests. It takes her ages to realize Sherlock’s left -- it’s too late to chase him, once they realize. (John frets a bit, but promises to find him tomorrow before they leave -- “He’s really not a people person; I’m surprised he lasted so long.”) And her perfect day, her perfect vision of the future, is gone.

That night, John is very understanding when she says she’s too exhausted for sex. “Happens to most couples on their wedding night, from what I’ve been told,” he says. Then he grins. “Besides, you need your rest -- you’re going to have a baby!” 

He falls asleep nearly immediately, while she pretends to sleep at his side. She doesn’t fall asleep in truth for many hours.


	10. Should be lovely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want content warnings for topics related to pregnancy and possible pregnancy outcomes, see the notes at the end of this chapter.

Her body is betraying her.

She feels lethargic and off, as if she’s coming down with something. She forgets things.

She has new aches, new sensitivities.

Her chest burns after eating and as she tries to sleep.

Her heart pounds faster than usual.

She tries to lose herself in her morning run -- now along a Sardinian path, with ocean views, which should be lovely. But she stops twice to vomit, and whereas running normally invigorates her, she now has to drag herself along the entire way. The Mediterranean wind brushes tears off her cheeks, and she sniffles as she runs, feeling angry at the tears, the wind, and everything. 

She’s trapped more firmly inside her body than ever before. But it no longer feels like hers. 

“That was quite a run,” John comments when she gets back. “Pregnancy must be giving you extra energy -- not the normal complaint,” he says with a smile.

She doesn’t say anything, just chugs a bottle of water and drips sweat on the kitchen floor of their rented villa. 

“You might want to ease up a bit,” he says. “Take it a little easy on yourself, given.” He gestures at her torso as if her pregnancy is writ visibly there already. 

She flashes a smile at him, bright and false. “Oh, I wasn’t running that whole time,” she lies. “I was enjoying the scenery, but I walked a bunch of the way.”

He eyes her skeptically, but doesn’t push her on it. “Any vomiting?”

She shakes her head as she leaves the room, headed for the shower. “Not today.” Maybe if she denies it hard enough, it will stop being true.

* * *

_`We need to talk. `_

She stares at the text on the Mycroftphone, then closes it without answering. She knows what he must want to talk about -- if Sherlock deduced her condition, there’s no way his older brother has missed it. But she doesn’t want to discuss it with him.

She picks up her other phone and finds two texts from Sherlock -- the first she can remember him sending her: 

_`Avoid soft cheeses. `_

_`The amount of wine you consumed at the wedding is insufficient to be teratogenic, but be cautious with future intake. `_

She ignores that Holmes brother, too.

Instead, she reads a series of texts from Janine:

_` Hey, amica! How’s life in Italy? ` _

_`I looked up the weather you’re getting, and WOW. `_

_`Share some of the sun, will you? I’ll never forgive you if you hog it all yourself. `_

Her lips twitch, and she responds, _Everything is beautiful or quaint, or both. Tried to buy you a box of sunshine in the local quaint village, but the shipping costs are outrageous. Sorry! xo_

* * *

She and John sit on the beach -- mostly empty, in the off-season. With the sea breeze and the fact that it’s still late May, it’s pleasant, but not hot. She’s wrapped in a cardigan and pretending to read her book. 

“Just imagine,” John says, “in a few years, we could be building sandcastles with the little one.”

“Mmm,” she says, not looking up from her novel.

“Maybe we can come back here as a family, after the little one learns to swim.” She wrinkles her nose at the repetition; she's already getting sick of John's fond appellation for their potential future child. She can hear the huge grin in his voice, though, as he asks, “What do you think?”

She looks up. “Can we not talk about it?” 

He frowns. She sighs and makes an effort to come up with an acceptable explanation. “It’s just… we’re going to have so much time to talk about everything, and to plan ahead. But we’ve been planning for the wedding for so long. And now -- now I want to have our honeymoon, and have it be just about the two of us. I just want to focus on you.”

He beams and leans in to kiss her. “Of course,” he says softly, pressing his forehead to hers. “You’re right -- let’s take a little time to focus just on us.” She can’t help but notice that he glances at her belly as he says it, though.

“Want to go for a dip?” he asks a moment later.

She glances down the mostly-deserted beach and the empty, still-cold waters. “Only if it’s a skinny dip,” she says, daring him with her grin.

“You’re on.”

They strip off, run down to the water, and the air is soon filled with splashing and swearing at the temperature. They swim and play and caress each other beneath the water’s surface for a good five minutes before she pukes on him.

* * *

_`Continuing to ignore my texts will not alter the situation. `_

She can’t think of anything Mycroft could say right now about the situation that she would want to hear. She doesn’t respond.

_`No Caesar salad. Traditional dressing may contain Salmonella. `_

She deletes Sherlock’s message.

_`I hope you’re having a ridiculous amount of sex. And drinks. And beach time. `_

_`...Hang on, can I come on your honeymoon, too? `_

Instead of a smile, Janine’s texts elicit a stab of jealousy -- jealousy toward the Mary that Janine thinks she’s talking to. The one having fun.

She hasn’t been drinking a ridiculous amount, of course. And sex… well, it’s not that they haven’t been having sex. But it’s different now. John stares with wonder and tenderness at her abdomen, even though it looks exactly the same as before. Her nipples, newly over-sensitive, are now off-limits. She can no longer lose herself in action and sensation, in movement and joy, in John. She stays firmly trapped inside herself.

Janine understands none of this, of course. And Mary can’t explain. Putting it into words would be too big a commitment to this new reality. Janine is very happily child-free, in any case. She’d probably be repulsed by it all -- God knows Mary is.

_Yes, ridiculous amounts of everything. It’s utterly perfect! xo _

_`I’M SO JEALOUS -- I mean happy for you. <3  `_

She drops the phone and suits up for a run.

* * *

Running hardly helps. 

This morning, it once again feels like a struggle to move, but she keeps pushing. She feels muscles burn, shoulders slump, face heat, a stitch form in her side. She stumbles on and on, trying to regain some sense of calm and equilibrium. Instead, she loses her stomach contents three times and gains a high degree of dehydration. She returns home grouchier than when she left, craving salt and sugar, headachy.

John has made breakfast. She walks past the spread on the table and straight to the coffee pot in the kitchen.

“Don’t drink that!” John yelps as she pours herself a mug. 

She ignores him and sips it, burning her tongue. Its smell is all wrong -- so strong, and off. But she’s committed now.

He takes the mug from her and sets it on the counter. “Caffeine,” he explains.

“Yes.” She picks it back up, sips again. “It’ll be fine.”

“The first trimester is --”

“Oh, relax,” she snaps. “I’m not going to have ten cups. Just let me have my coffee.” 

She rummages in the cupboard for a moment, then pops a biscuit into her mouth. John looks pointedly at the food on the table, then back at her. They glare at each other for a while. “You were gone a long time,” he says finally. 

“Yep.” 

“Food’s cold.”

“Well, then it won’t matter if I shower first.” She takes her coffee and another biscuit and leaves the room. She drinks a little, and pours the rest down the drain furiously.

She knows there’s no reason to be angry at him. That makes her angrier. 

In the shower she swears like a sailor -- at him, at herself, at her fucking body. Then she vomits again, losing the coffee and biscuit, and undoing the good of the shower. She starts crying. John comes in and helps her clean off, then tenderly wraps her in a towel and holds her as she cries. “I can’t even eat your breakfast,” she sobs.

“Shh, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.” For a moment, she almost believes him. But he thinks they just have to make it through the pregnancy. She’s trying to figure out how to survive so much more. She sobs harder, unable to stop and so very angry about her helplessness.

* * *

Later that day, she feels much calmer. Her stomach has settled. She’s had food and a nap and a snuggle afterward with John. Now they sit in the garden and enjoy the sun.

John, staring at his laptop, chuckles. “That bastard.”

“Mmm?” She looks up from another book she can’t get into.

“Sherlock broke into my blog. He’s writing about our ‘Sex Holiday.’” 

It startles her into giggles. “Oh, God. He would, wouldn’t he?” She leans in and reads over his shoulder. “Mmm… he seems to be in a bit of a strop. Have you talked to him lately?” 

The morning after their wedding, she and John had tried calling Sherlock to say thank you for the wedding speech and song and crime-solving -- John had ended up texting him instead when he hadn’t answered their calls. 

“I’ve tried. He’s been answering my texts monosyllabically, or not at all.” John sighs. “The only longer message I got was, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be spending time with your wife?’”

She echoes his sigh. “Silly arse. Maybe I should try texting him.”

John frowns. “You? Have the two of you ever texted before?”

“No,” she says quickly. Then she bites her lip. There’s no real reason to lie about the fact that Sherlock is texting her now. But it feels like something he might not be doing, if they hadn’t solved that case together. “Maybe you should try sending him a flirty text, hmm?” She smiles. “That should shake him out of his strop.”

John smiles, but shakes his head. “Not the time for flirting, I think.”

“Why not?”

“Well. Everything’s different now, isn’t it?” 

Just like that, her good mood is gone. “It doesn’t have to be.” 

He shrugs and smiles, oblivious to the petulance of her tone. “It is, though. And anyway, he’s right, and you’re right, too -- it’s our honeymoon. I’m supposed to be focusing on you.” He leans in and kisses her. “There’ll be time for Sherlock later.”

But there won’t be. Everything is different now, and it’s only going to get worse. Her plans for the three of them to solve cases are crumbling. How is she going to go on cases when the two of them want to protect her from coffee and salads? 

“I need a nap,” she says abruptly. He lets her go with a fond smile.

* * *

She’s having a harder time finding anything to say to Janine.

_`Missed you at yoga today. Mr. Pretentious was teaching again. `_

_`It wasn’t nearly as fun to hear him instruct us to “divest the onion of your consciousness of its outer layers” without you there trying not to giggle. `_

It makes her smile for a moment. But then she remembers that yoga is one more thing that’s going to change, now that she’s lost control of her body. Even if she doesn’t stop now, on account of puking and fatigue, her body will eventually change shape. 

Nothing Janine talks about feels relevant anymore. She doesn’t know how to respond.

On the other hand, someone else has finally prodded her into replying.

_`Are you getting enough folic acid? `_

_Oh for god’s sake, Sherlock. Stop treating me like I’m not a medical professional. _

_Would you be telling John this kind of thing? _

_`Yes. `_

But the texts stop.

* * *

She’s not the only one feeling restless. John, who hasn’t been sleeping well at night, is as antsy lazing about on the beach during the day as she is. As she slips into her jogging shorts, he asks, “Can I join you?”

“No,” she says quickly, craving time alone and knowing that John will think she’s pushing herself too hard. 

John looks hurt, and she smiles apologetically. “I feel so unattractive when I run,” she fibs. “Let’s keep a little bit of the romance, yeah? Why don’t you go for a swim, instead?” 

He smiles uncertainly. “Yeah, all right. I suppose I should take advantage of being on the Mediterranean.”

They go their separate directions for the rest of the morning, and John works out some of his restlessness among the waves. Busy treating his resulting sunburn, he doesn’t even comment when she stays out for over an hour.

She helps rub aloe on his skin, and then they sit together in the garden again. This time, she’s the one staring at a laptop screen, while he relaxes with a spy novel. (Silly trash; not remotely accurate. But then, she enjoys a good detective novel, herself.)

She frowns as she flips through the news headlines. The libel reform bill has passed -- unexpected. She skims the article and finds that her “cousin” has indeed switched his vote, as Magnussen wanted -- Mycroft’s doing -- but so have a number of other politicians who were not expected to vote in favor of the bill. She frowns and wonders if Mycroft knew this was coming. She certainly didn’t expect that Magnussen would be able to sway so many of the MPs. For she is quite sure that Magnussen is behind it all. His papers will benefit tremendously from the relaxed scrutiny.

She reads on, searching for related stories, but finds only unrelated grimness -- a coup in northern Africa; a suicide bombing in Israel; Moran’s trial pushed back yet again. She presses her lips together and closes the browser window.

What is Mycroft thinking? Does he have any more insight into any of this news? She wants to know, but she doesn’t want to talk to him. She’s certain that he’s going to take her off the Magnussen case as soon as she does. She can hardly function in her current condition. And it’s only going to get worse. 

Later that night, she takes out the dedicated phone and finds another message from him:

_`If you do not respond, I will make decisions about your assignment without your input. `_

As if that’s anything new. She turns off the phone and buries it at the bottom of her suitcase.

* * *

“Come on,” she says, the next morning. “Let’s go out and do something.”

“Oh, sure, now that I’m in pain and all I want to do is laze about,” John jokes. But his sunburn has improved, and he’s eager enough.

They drive to some gorgeous cliffs. They climb narrow stone stairs to the top, the wind whipping against them the whole way. At the top, Mary peers over the edge into the deep blue water 15 meters below. 

“Let’s jump!” She says with a grin, expecting to see John’s eyes light up. 

“No!” he shouts, instead. “Are you crazy?!”

“Maybe,” she says defiantly. “I thought you were, too.”

“Mary, we can’t. It’s not just us, now. We have to think about --”

“Forget it.” She goes silent, staring out at the water, and he doesn’t say anything. 

He’s going to continue to risk his own life on cases, though, isn’t he? And meanwhile, she’ll never be able to just think about herself again. She grits her teeth. 

She’s always liked children in the abstract, and a family is a nice idea for someday. But she has no desire to do all this right now. It’s not fair. Everything was going so well.

She stamps her foot, which she knows is childish, but which feels good. And then everything is sliding, the ground beneath her foot shifts, crumbles, dissolves into air.

She pinwheels for a moment, and then John grabs her arm as she starts to topple over the cliff’s edge. He yanks her backward, and they tumble to the ground. They stare at each other wide-eyed, breathless.

“I thought I told you,” he pants, “no cliff jumping.”

She giggles, high on adrenaline, and so does he. They kiss, fiercely, fight forgotten. Minutes later, they’re having frantic sex on the edge of a cliff, and she manages to lose herself in the moment. Finally. 

She comes back to herself, her body, and the trap she’s in all too soon, though.

* * *

After a notable silence, Sherlock texts again, this time sans health warnings.

_`Has John put on weight? `_

It’s an odd question, but a nice change from advice about nutrition.

_Maybe. Why? _

_`He texts as if he’s put on weight. `_

She has no idea what that means. _Yeah, I think he has, a bit. _

_Why don’t you text him? He’d like to hear from you. _

_`He has more important things to attend to now. `_

_You’re very important to John. _

_`There are now two of you who are more important. He doesn’t need distractions. `_

_Oh, hush. You’re important to both of us, and any distraction you provide will always be welcome. _

Secretly, though, she fears that the thing she is carrying inside her might be more important to John than either of them. He lights up when he talks about the future like he never has before.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, and she’s about to put the phone away when a message arrives from an unknown number. 

_`Are you okay? -- Cath `_

Anthea has never texted her on her personal phone before. But then, given that she’s turned off her other phone, it’s not like there’s another way to reach her. Anthea must know she’s been incommunicado. She probably knows why, too; Mary has never known Anthea to lack knowledge that Mycroft has.

She starts to type back _Of course! xo_ , but then erases it.

* * *

The next day, she and John visit a Nuraghe -- an ancient Sardinian stone tower, surrounded by the foundations of other buildings, gone now for thousands of years. As she stares up at the inside of the beehive-like dome, she wonders how people in the Bronze Age managed to create a structure that is still standing. She wonders what they used it for. 

Hard though it is to fathom, she knows there are other, more ancient buildings out there, still standing. The thought sends a shiver of awe through her. She makes an impulsive promise to herself that she will visit them all -- pyramids and cairns and whatever else, wherever else, they may be.

No, she won’t, she realizes a moment later.

She will have no more spur-of-the-moment adventures. No dangerous assignments in far-off lands, either. Her life is not her own anymore. Will not belong to her again. Not for decades. 

John comes over and holds her as she starts sobbing. “What’s wrong?” he asks, extremely worried.

She’s crying too hard to answer at first. “Nothing,” she sobs into his shoulder at last. “Nothing. Just. Hormones. Stupid.”

“Shhh, it’s fine,” he says. “Not stupid at all. Let’s get you away from these dusty old rocks and go home.”

* * *

That night, sleep doesn’t come.

Dread makes a home in her stomach; anxiety wraps itself around her lungs and squeezes.

She’s not ready to give up her old life. She doesn’t want this. Not now. Not when everything was about to be perfect. 

John does, though. 

If he didn’t, it would be easy. She could end it. Or if he didn’t know she was pregnant. If only.

Truthfully, she’s tempted even now. It could be made to look like an accident.

John is so happy, though. (She’s the one who’s supposed to be glowing -- but, most unfairly, he is.) He would be devastated if she lost it, no question. And she’d be miserable, knowing she caused that. And then he’d want to try again.

There’s no way out.

She slips out of bed and finds her phone. She texts Anthea back. 

_No. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings** : Mary has, at best, very mixed feelings about the pregnancy in this chapter and the next few. She does not currently think about the cells inside her as a child. She thinks about ways to end the pregnancy. If you have more questions about this chapter or eventual story outcomes, feel free to email me (same name at Gmail).
> 
> **End notes:** I’m treating the official tie-in blog as only semi-canonical; I’m keeping the bits I like (“Sex Holiday”!), but I’m ignoring everything that’s inconsistent with the show (argh, the dates) or that I feel is out of character. Basically, pretend that many of the same blog entries exist in this story, but they’re better written. :)
> 
> Thanks to ShinySherlock for beta feedback on this and the next few chapters, and to Lisa E., as always. Thanks to Amy P. for additional pregnancy info and anecdata. And thanks to anonsally for help choosing the honeymoon location and for answering questions about Sardinia! (All errors, as always, are mine.)


	11. It’s about partnership

“Just go see him.”

“He’s still not answering my texts.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to interrupt the honeymoon,” Mary sighs, rubbing her forehead and leaning against the breakfast table. Sherlock hasn’t been responding to her texts since they’ve returned, either. For the last portion of the honeymoon, he’d been texting her a few times a day with questions about John and herself (no further mentions of her pregnancy, fortunately), but he hasn’t sent anything or replied to her since they arrived home. It worries her a bit.

John snorts. “Yeah, that’s bloody likely. Sherlock Holmes, thinking of someone other than himself.” He fidgets with his cutlery. 

“Well, maybe he’s sulking.”

That elicits a frown. “Probably more like it. But I’ve been texting him. It’s his own damn fault for not answering.” A long pause. Then: “What if he’s not all right?”

She smiles reassuringly. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just in one of his moods, or else distracted by a case. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah.” John doesn’t sound convinced. After a pause, “Yeah, I suppose he probably is going on cases without me, isn’t he.” He swallows, purses his lips. “The whole world wants Sherlock Holmes. I'm just his blogger. He’s probably fine without me.”

Mary sighs. “Now you’re sulking. Just go talk to him. Invite him round to dinner, let him know he’s still welcome. And find a case together, maybe. Even if he’s taken some without you, I’m quite sure he’d rather solve them with you.”

John sighs, then acquiesces. “Yeah, all right.” Then, “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asks, but it’s mock suspicion, offered with a charming head tilt. 

“Never.” She beams at him and leans in for a kiss.

He smiles as he pushes his chair back. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll clean up, and then --”

She waves her hand at him. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You _are_ trying to get rid of me,” he says with a grin. “You hate dishes. All right, I’m going.”

He leaves, and she sighs with relief. John’s wide-eyed way of looking at her, full of wonder and joy, and all because of the coming changes that she hates and fears -- she can’t take it. It makes her feel guilt on top of the dread.

Now that he’s finally gone, she should do something. Read, or run, or return Janine’s increasing pile of unanswered texts ( _`You’re back, right? Let’s meet for drinks!`_ reads the latest). Instead, she lies down on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling.

She’s been lying there for she’s not sure how long when there’s a knock. She can’t think who it would be. She doesn’t move.

A key turns in the lock.

John wouldn’t have knocked first (nor would Sherlock, before picking the lock). Mycroft? No; he undoubtedly has copies of her keys, but would not let himself in when he knows her to be home. She sits up, scanning the room and identifying potential weapons.

Anthea walks into the room. Mary breathes out, sinking back against the sofa cushions. “Did he send you to fetch me?”

“Nope,” Anthea says. “I’m here of my own accord.” She holds out a box with a small bow on top. “Sources tell me chocolate is good for pregnant women.”

Mary shudders. “Ugh. Don’t even say that word.” But she takes the box.

Anthea frowns, but says, “All right.”

Mary relaxes a little. “I’m kidding,” she says, though she wasn’t entirely. “Sorry. God. I’m sorry. What I meant was -- thank you! Good to see you. Have a seat.” 

“Thanks,” Anthea says. She smiles and takes a seat at the other end of the sofa.

“So, ‘sources’ told you what’s good for me, hmm?” Mary asks.

“Just the internet,” Anthea says. “Like I said, I’m here of my own accord.”

Mary smiles and nods. She opens the box, takes out a dark chocolate truffle, and bites into it with a happy sigh. “Sources are brilliant. You’re brilliant.” 

She offers the box to Anthea, who selects a chocolate. “Mmm, I _am_ brilliant,” she admits after taking a bite.

Mary giggles at that, and Anthea smiles, looking pleased with herself. After she polishes off the truffle, she says, “So. Pregnancy sucks, huh?”

Mary snorts. “Yeah. Guess how many times I’ve puked today, so far.” 

Anthea wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like that you can play that game.”

“I know,” she groans.

“I mean, it’s only 10 A.M.”

Mary laughs again. It feels good to talk about it. 

When she’d texted “Cath” that she wasn’t all right, Anthea wrote back instantly: _`What can I do to help? `_

Just that question itself was enough to calm Mary down, as it turned out. 

_Nothing. _

_I don’t know. _

_ Thank you. _

The next morning, she awoke to a picture of [a kitten dressed as a pirate](http://www.incrediblethings.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/pirate-kitten-1.jpg), followed by a question mark. She smiled in spite of herself.

_Yeah, I think that might actually help, a little. _

Since that time, she and Anthea have corresponded almost entirely in photos of cats dressed as other animals ([a goat](http://cutearoo.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Kitten3.jpg), [a bee](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mTeNE_tWIoE/ULAGdB5XvwI/AAAAAAAAG_g/hSHQRXSVsXE/s640/2250.jpg), [a bat](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcs25uzEwU1qcx9z3o1_500.jpg), [a lion](http://iruntheinternet.com/lulzdump/images/gifs/cat-lion-costume-bites-giraffe-1390233379S.gif?id=647)) and emoticons ( _:), <3, :D, xoxoxo _).

And now here they are, actually talking about it. “Three times,” she says.

“Ew.” Anthea pulls another face, but it’s a sympathetic one.

“Tell me about it.”

“How are you feeling, otherwise?”

“Achy. Tired. Alternately hungry and nauseated.” 

“I meant --”

“I know what you meant.” Mary sighs. “Panicky. Like everything is ruined forever.”

Anthea nods. “What do you want?”

Mary says, “John wants a baby. So much.”

“What do _you_ want?” she repeats.

“I… I want my life back.” To her horror, Mary begins to cry. Anthea pulls her into a hug, and she sobs into her navy blazer.

As she finishes and sits back a bit, Anthea hands her a tissue from the box on the side table. “What options are you considering?” she asks.

Mary laughs a bit as she wipes her nose. “So diplomatic,” she says. “Yes, I’ve considered abortion. But I don’t think I can do that to John.”

Anthea nods. She looks thoughtful as she takes another chocolate, then offers one to Mary.

“Do you want kids?” Mary asks, suddenly wondering.

Anthea raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering me yours?”

Mary bursts out laughing. “Oh, God. No, I’m afraid John probably wouldn’t go for that, either.” 

Anthea smiles. “That’s probably for the best. I don’t want any just now, ta.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly the issue.”

Anthea nods. “Well, that does suck.” Mary smiles. Nice to have someone else agree. “So, is it helping to ignore work, then?”

Mary blinks. “I -- well -- erm. Not really, I suppose.” 

Anthea nods and eats her chocolate without comment. 

“Is he angry?” Mary ventures.

Anthea raises one eyebrow in her patented _really?_ look.

“He’s angry,” Mary sighs.

“Livid.”

“Lovely.” 

“You’re still employed, though,” Anthea observes.

She wrinkles her nose. “For all the good I’ll be able to do, like this.”

Anthea studies her for a long moment. “I think you’re still the most dangerous person I know.”

Mary breaks into a startled smile. “Thank you,” she says, feeling a sudden pulse of warmth. 

Anthea returns the smile. “Certainly.” Then she glances at her watch. “I’ve got to go now -- I’ve a flight to catch.”

“Mycroft traveling?” 

“No. Well, yes -- he’ll be back in town soon, though. But I’m traveling alone, this time.”

“Oh?” That’s new.

“Yeah. Tell you about it when I get back.”

“All right.” They hug, and Anthea turns to go.

Mary bites her lip. Then, “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Say hi to Janine for me, would you?”

“Sure.”

After Anthea leaves, Mary glances at the texts from Janine again. She still can’t think what to say. She retrieves the Mycroftphone as well, but she doesn’t turn it on.

* * *

She’s polished off the chocolates and taken a nap by the time John gets home.

John’s in a mood. She can hear it in the way he walks, the way he shuts the door. More precise than usual. She can see it in the tilt of his chin, and his stance as he stares out the front window.

“How’d things go with Sherlock, then?” she asks.

John purses his lips. “He wasn’t there.”

“Oh?” She bites her lip, wondering where the detective is.

“I stayed a while. Talked to Mrs. Hudson -- learned far too much about her own honeymoon, incidentally.” He shakes his head. “Sherlock never showed up.”

“Out on a case?”

“No idea. She hadn’t talked to him in days, she said.”

She glances at the clock. “You waited for him that whole time?” 

He lifts his chin. “No. Took a walk, after.”

She's trying to think of something helpful to suggest when John’s phone rings. He pulls it out, squinting at the screen in surprise a moment before answering. “Harry!” His voice is half-relieved, half-irritated.

He walks into the bedroom, half-closing the door behind him. Mary can hear him asking her how she is, where she’s been. Harry is clearly apologizing, offering some sort of explanation. John’s still angry; there’s lecturing, raised voices, and frustration before a grudging reconciliation. Finally, John says, “Well, I’m glad you called, anyway. We’ve got news! You’re going to be an aunt.”

“Jesus fuck, John,” she shouts. It’s too early to be telling anyone, and they haven’t even discussed it yet.

He pokes his head out the doorway and gives her the quizzical-guilty look of someone who is just realizing that he’s done something wrong, but is still trying to pretend ignorance. She just glares at him, seethes with a sudden all-consuming rage. John half-shrugs and points to the phone and mouths “on the phone,” as if she’s an idiot, then disappears from view.

She sits stewing for a long time, listening to John in the other room, so very happy, and to the excited shrieks on the other end of the line, audible even from here. She breathes in, breathes out. It’s many breaths before she’s calm enough to engage in anything resembling coherent thought. Once she can think again, she very grudgingly supposes he thinks Harry is a special case. There’s a bond between siblings, isn’t there? They know things about one another.

Still listening to their shared happiness, she reaches into her pocket for the Mycroftphone. She turns it on and sends a text. _Let’s talk._

* * *

Mycroft meets her in a dilapidated building. He greets her more icily than usual.

“Agent Morstan.”

“Is Sherlock all right?” she asks without preamble.

“We can address that later. First --”

“Is he all right?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “More or less. Nobody is hurting him other than he himself.”

Mary frowns -- Sherlock himself could do a lot of damage, she’s sure -- but she nods. “Is he in London?”

“Yes.”

The fear that’s been building up since Sherlock stopped answering her texts, the fear on behalf of John -- only on behalf of John, of course -- that Sherlock has been hurt, or has fled again, or both, dissipates. She sighs and feels her shoulders drop, but then remembers that her reasons for being here are not the same as Mycroft’s for wanting her here, and she squares them again. “Good. Let’s talk, then.” She prepares for a fight.

Mycroft tilts his head. “You’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“Is that the reason you’ve been unreachable?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I was on my honeymoon.” When he just stares at her, she says, “I refuse to believe that you couldn’t have reached me if you really wanted.”

Mycroft frowns. “Is that the reason you’ve been ignoring my messages?”

She feels an urge to keep arguing, but can’t think of anything to argue about with his statement. It’s irritating. Finally, she nods.

“Did you think you would lose your job?”

She shrugs. That’s such a specific fear. She’s mostly avoided identifying her fears by refusing to think about them closely.

“Do you think you’re the first agent to be in this condition?”

She shrugs again, but the question startles her. She hadn’t thought about it. She doesn’t generally talk to any of the other operatives (unless they’re attending her wedding), and it’s easy to forget they exist. 

Mycroft huffs exasperatedly. “You’re hardly the only one.” To get pregnant, she wonders, or to give birth? Are there active field agents raising children, or did they all put an end to it? “It’s inconvenient timing, I’ll grant that. But that’s not a firing offense.” He stares at her, oozing prim disappointment. “Not communicating is far more so. But I suppose you are aware.” 

He’s clearly not about to punish her, though. In fact, he’s said nothing to explicitly make her angry, but she feels angry. At him, at his disappointment. “I’m here now. So talk.” 

He raises his eyebrows at her tone. “Were you avoiding the news, as well?”

“No.”

“You saw, then.”

“Magnussen changed the vote.” Mycroft nods. “Do we know how?” 

His mouth turns down the smallest perceptible amount, a limen of frown, and he shakes his head. “Not yet. His network is more powerful even than I’d surmised.”

She nods. “So, what’s next?”

“We’re going to have to make the next move sooner than expected.”

“Because of Magnussen, or because of this?” She gestures at her abdomen.

An eyebrow lift. “Indeed.”

“I still want to go after him in his London office.” She says it challengingly, expecting a fight, but Mycroft just nods. She’s left a little off balance by the quick acquiescence. She uncrosses her arms. 

“Magnussen is in London next week,” Mycroft tells her. As if she didn’t know that. She rolls her eyes. “Barring any unforeseen events, be prepared to execute the plan in five days.”

“Good.” She’s terrified that she won’t be able to perform the job as well as she once could, but she’s not going to let him know that. Five days gives her some time to refine her plan, and to practice (plenty of tall buildings in London -- some with far less security than Magnussen’s offices). If she finds that she can’t control her body sufficiently during a dry run, there’s still time to make adjustments.

She came ready for a fight, but got none. She feels abruptly tired -- more tired. She also feels happier, but only in a distant, theoretical way. “Is that all?” she asks, trying to sound alert, bored rather than fatigued. 

He nods, and she goes home. 

* * *

They’re at the doctor’s office -- but not at their own clinic. It’s always odd, being in someone else’s office, and far stranger now for it being an obstetrician. She and John clutch hands -- him with excitement, her with tension.

She’s felt a bit better about everything since yesterday’s conversation with Mycroft. He made it sound like there could be light at the end of the tunnel, career-wise, in spite of the pregnancy. Still, she’s not exactly relaxed. 

Mary likes the doctor, despite still resenting most things about this process on principle. She’s straightforward and efficient. Mary relaxes as she provides answers about her family’s medical history -- mostly true, but with a few big exceptions. Mary’s father is dead and never suffered diabetes; Mary never smoked, never did anything that might put her at risk for hepatitis. Gwen’s a different story. Gwen is also several years older than Mary. 

She doesn’t want any more ongoing monitoring than necessary, though, and doesn’t want John to ask too many questions or worry overly -- or to catch her in previous lies. So she gives the most expedient answers. (The one thing she doesn’t lie about is how often she’s been vomiting, only to be told that 3-5 times a day is “perfectly normal” -- a horrifying fact.) But John and the doctor both turn out to be better-safe-than-sorry sorts, when it comes to pregnancy; she undergoes a number of tests anyway and has to promise to take various supplements.

After the pelvic exam, the doctor asks if they want to hear the baby’s heartbeat. John lights up, and she can’t help but grin back at him as they listen. John is so joyful, so alive. To him, the cells inside her are already a child, and he’s already half in the future, building sandcastles.

She feels happy for John. But the rhythm doesn’t evoke anything in her. _Maybe the tests will reveal something is wrong_ , she thinks, guilty even as she half-hopes. But she smiles at John, squeezing his hands.

* * *

_`I have news`_ , Janine texts. _`Call me.`_

That’s the problem, though -- so does she, but it’s still not something she feels like sharing. She can’t keep dodging Janine forever, though. _Ugh, so busy! Sorry. I’ll call soon! xo_

She can tell Janine is a bit impatient, hurt at this point. She thinks about offering some sort of explanation, real or made up. Instead, she texts Anthea.

_ Can you do me a favor? _

_`What do you need? `_

_Can you give me some numbers on female actives -- field actives, not desk jobs -- with children? _

_`Of course. Have you made progress on deciding what you want, then? `_

_Maybe. _

_`Want to get dinner tomorrow? I've got to go out of town for a while - off the grid, mostly - but I'd love to see you before I go. And I’ll bring the stats. `_

_Yes! Thanks. xo _

* * *

Things get off to a disorienting start the next day, though, as a banging on the door awakens her and John early in the morning. As John goes to answer the door, Mary surreptitiously fetches her gun and tucks it into her pajama pocket, wrapping her dressing gown around her to conceal it.

It’s just their neighbor, Kate, as it turns out, whom they haven't seen since the wedding. She’s in a dreadful state, sobbing at the door. John is frozen, just standing there — honestly, is he this useless with patients who are crying, too? She resolves to do a better job monitoring patients at the clinic who might be dealing with upsetting news, and try to be in the room to handle their emotions in a more competent and human fashion — “Invite her in?” she suggests.

John does. Mary takes charge, fetching tissues and sending John for tea — much to the relief of both John and Kate. While John fusses about in the kitchen, Mary gets the story.

Mary’s not close to any of their neighbors, but Kate likes to come by at least once a month with a plate of biscuits and a list of long-suffering complaints about her job, her family, and the other neighbors. (Mary wonders what complaints Kate has about Mary and John when talking to the other neighbors.) She’s nice enough, but Mary sometimes pretends not to be home when she comes by. Still, she and John have heard tell often enough of Kate’s sons and all the ways they act “fit to break mother’s heart.”

“It’s Isaac,” she explains to John as he returns with tea.

“Ah, your husband,” John says. 

Mary corrects him, trying not to frown. “Son.” His lack of attention to detail can be useful, but oh God, it’s also annoying.

“Son, yeah,” he says, looking slightly embarrassed at the error. 

“He’s gone missing again,” Kate repeats to John, after he returns with tea. “Didn’t come home last night.”

“The usual,” Mary says delicately, with a knowing nod toward John.

“He’s the drugs one, yeah?” John asks. 

Mary gives him an exasperated look as Kate starts sobbing again. “Er, yeah, nicely put, John.”

John’s not paying attention. “Look, is it Sherlock Holmes you want? Because I’ve not seen him in ages.” 

“About a month,” Mary says quickly, trying to keep John from getting distracted by his own worries about Sherlock when there’s someone in immediate need. 

“Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” Kate asks, bewildered. She’s not the sort to pay much attention to news beyond the neighborhood. 

“See? That does happen,” Mary points out with a tight smile.

Kate tells them where it is that Isaac goes to shoot up, and Mary realizes that John’s planning to go retrieve Isaac by himself. 

“Seriously?” she asks, following him outside in her dressing gown.

“Why not?” John asks. “She’s not going to the police. Someone’s got to get him.”

She’s unsurprised; without Sherlock in his life for the past month, and following a month of beaches, John’s desperate for action. But she worries; drug dealers and people who are high are more likely to be armed and unpredictable than the types of criminals she’s used to dealing with, and she’s not terribly familiar with the neighborhood Kate named.

“Why you?” she protests. She’d rather it were her. 

“I’m being neighborly,” John says. Failing that, she wishes she could do reconnaissance first.

“Since when?” Mary asks. She wishes John had Sherlock with him. 

“Since now,” John says with a dry laugh. “Since this exact minute.” She wishes John knew everything so she could openly be his backup. 

“Why are you being so…?” She stalls for time and pretends not to know exactly why he’s being so -- not to know that he’s been dreaming about Sherlock lately, muttering about cases and danger in his sleep.

“What?”

She sighs, knowing she’s lost. “I dunno. What’s the matter with you?” She’ll have to be his backup without his knowing, then. 

“There is _nothing_ the matter with me,” John responds vehemently. Then, softer, “Imagine I said that without shouting.”

“I’m trying,” she says, walking toward the car.

“No, you can’t come,” he tells her impatiently. “You’re pregnant.”

Mary throws it back at him. “You can’t go. I’m pregnant.” She gets in the car, dressing gown and all.

When they arrive, she looks around, trying to get the lay of the land. John fetches something from the boot, and she laughs when she sees him tucking it into the top of his jeans.

“What is that?” she asks, knowing very well what it is, but playing the incredulous wife.

“It’s a tire lever.”

“Why?” 

“‘Cause there’re loads of smackheads in there,” he says, nodding toward the dilapidated building, “and one of them might need help with a tire. If there’s any trouble, just go. I’ll be fine.”

He’s so fucking irresistible when he’s like this. She gets out of the car, says his name until he looks at her. “It is a _tiny_ bit sexy,” she says.

“Yeah, I know.” He says calmly, radiating self-confidence, and it’s all she can do not to grab him and delay him with a thorough snogging. Then he strides off, tire iron in his pants. 

She watches as he bangs on the door and pushes his way past the man who answers. The minute he’s inside, she runs up to the building. She stands just to the side of the partially open door, and she listens. She listens as John questions the man about Isaac’s whereabouts, and as the man apparently pulls a knife. She prepares to run in and help if needed, but leaves her gun stowed -- if he doesn’t have a firearm, she’s not going to be the one to start shooting.

John deploys his own weapon: intense snark. “I’m asking you if you’ve seen Isaac Whitney, and now you’re showing me a knife. Is it a clue?” A pause. “Are you doing a mime?”

The other man speaks: “Go. Or I’ll cut you.”

“Ooh, not from there. Let me help.” Footsteps. She wishes she dared peer through the doorway. “Now, concentrate.” He repeats Isaac’s name, slowly.

“Okay, you asked for it,” the other man says, and she tenses, but it’s immediately followed by the sound of a precise, soldierly hit, a body slamming into a wall, a man (not John) grunting, a knife clattering to the ground. She grins with pride. Dear God, that sounded sexy. She wishes she’d seen it. 

After a lot of moaning over an apparent sprain, John gets an answer out of the man about Isaac’s probable location. He heads up the stairs, and she considers trying to follow him. But the fact that the first floor was lightly guarded -- nobody came to the aid of the man with the knife -- is reassuring. John is likely just facing people high on heroin at this point, and he’s a soldier, now armed with a blade. She trusts that he won’t get into too much trouble. Besides, the smell around here is horrendous, and she’s about to -- 

She tries to vomit quietly. The man inside, still moaning softly, doesn’t notice. She cleans her face, then goes back to wait in the car, this time in the driver’s seat.

She starts to worry again when she sees Kate’s eldest son emerge from the building, alone.

“Hello, Isaac,” she greets him. She tries not to worry about John yet -- first things first. She looks Isaac over, assessing his condition. He doesn’t appear hurt, but he’s still nodding, very high. She saw too many people self-medicating against the grim reality of the run-down Russian neighborhood where she used to meet contacts, and she doesn’t miss it -- but she’ll take a dreamy heroin addict over the belligerence of a meth head, any day.

“Mrs. Watson,” he says, stumbling and slurring his words, “ can I -- can I get in, please?”

 _Mrs. Watson._ He’s very nearly the first person to call her that. She’d almost protested John’s assumption that she would take his name. _Oh, aren’t you taking mine, then?_ she’d wanted to snap. It shouldn’t have surprised her; John has an unthinking respect for tradition. He didn’t mean anything malicious. It just never occurred to him that she might want to stay Morstan -- certainly never occurred to him that they might become the Morstan-Watsons, or the Warstans. He just presumed they’d do what most people did. 

She might have argued, except that the name she was giving up wasn’t hers to begin with.

She shakes off that line of thought -- stay focused. “Yes, of course. Get in. Where’s John?” 

“They’re having a fight,” Isaac says as he opens the car door and then crumples onto the seat like a press-base toy gone slack.

The man with the knife? Or has someone else gotten involved? “Who is?” she asks, preparing to head in and rescue John if necessary.

Isaac pushes himself slightly more upright, smiling dreamily. “His -- you know -- him. The one gave that odd speech at the wedding.”

She frowns. Surely not -- 

There’s a crash from the fire escape, and she sees them. John’s fine, though clearly angry. Sherlock’s looked better, and is also clearly angry. She wonders if Sherlock’s here on a case or simply sulking via more dramatic means than usual. Either way, she resists the urge to go shake him for making her and John worry. And for making them all go through detox -- she’s fairly certain that’ll have to happen next. Still, time for all that later. 

She drives over to meet them. “In,” she orders. “Both of you. Quickly!” 

As they obey, the man who John disarmed earlier hurries over to the car. “Please,” he asks, “can I come? I think I’ve got a broken arm.”

“No. Go away,” she responds.

But John breaks in. “No, let him.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake, is John’s conscience getting the better of him? It was self-defense, and the arm’s not broken. “Why?” 

John doesn’t answer her, speaking instead to the injured man, which is irritating. “Yeah, just get in. It’s a sprain.”

Oh, fine. She’s just the driver, is she? Doesn’t get a say in this, or an explanation. She should have followed him -- it’s apparently the only way to learn what’s happening. “Anyone else?” she fumes. “I mean, we’re taking everybody home, are we?” 

John doesn’t even seem to notice her tone. He still looks hacked off at the man in the backseat. And not the one clutching his arm, or their disgraced neighbor.

“All right, Shezza?” the man with the injured arm says. 

“‘Shezza?!’” John repeats.

“I was undercover,” Sherlock retorts.

Mary can’t help letting a touch of laughter creep into her voice. Of course he has a ridiculous name. He likes to play at being undercover; his disguises are clumsy and half for show. “Seriously -- ‘Shezza’, though?” 

Sherlock sighs dramatically. John says, firmly, “We’re not going home. We’re going to Bart’s. I’m calling Molly.”

“Why?” Mary asks, not particularly expecting an explanation, or to be included in the decision-making at this stage. 

“Because Sherlock Holmes,” John says, glaring dramatically at the back seat as he makes the call, “needs to pee in a jar.” 

She sets her jaw. It’s not a bad idea to go somewhere that they can have a proper look at Sherlock and the car’s other inhabitants. Afterward, though, when they get home, she and her husband are going to have a chat about a number of aspects of this conversation. For now, she drives to Bart’s. The car is full of awkward silence and unpleasant odors. She watches in the rear-view mirror as Sherlock’s eyes flick Johnward, frequently. John stares straight ahead, unaware.

* * *

She makes it to the toilets at Bart’s before puking again, barely. When she emerges, Sherlock has provided his sample, and Molly is angrily running tests while John and Sherlock glare at one another. Mary, still not in a mood to talk to John after the car, busies herself tending to the knife fight man’s arm.

John has to know Sherlock isn’t clean, but he asks anyway when Molly finishes her tests.

Molly responds by slapping Sherlock and accusing him of betrayal. Mary jerks around at the sound, surprised -- from all she’s ever seen of Molly, she’s a mouse. She wonders if Molly had somehow managed to miss Sherlock’s prior drug history, or just expected him not to relapse. Either could be a rude realization about someone you idolized, she supposes. (She avoids such issues by never idolizing anyone.)

Molly demands that Sherlock apologize, and Sherlock responds, “Sorry your engagement’s over -- though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”

Mary sighs. Oh, Sherlock. Molly can’t have expected better of him, though -- she knows what he’s like. 

“Stop it. Just. Stop it.” Molly sounds hurt and furious.

John breaks in, unleashing further anger on Sherlock, this time tempered by worry and disappointment. “If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me.”

Sherlock sounds bored. “Please do relax. This is all for a case.”

Mary shakes her head. She doesn’t believe it’s only for a case. Not after watching the way Sherlock greedily drinks in John’s attention, angry though it is. Sherlock undoubtedly has an assortment of drug connections; with all those, he chose the one frequented by John’s neighbor? Hardly a coincidence, she’s sure.

“A ca -- What kind of case would need you doing this?” John asks.

“I might as well ask you why you’ve started cycling to work,” Sherlock attempts to divert him.

John’s not having it. “No. We’re not playing this game.” 

Sherlock ignores him. “Quite recently, I’d say. You’re very determined about it.”

“Not interested.”

“I am,” Knife Fight pipes up, and she jiggles his arm -- he can bloody well stay out of it.

“Ow!”

Mary sighs. “Sorry,” she says, not. “You moved. But it is just a sprain.”

“Yeah,” the man says, “somebody hit me.”

“Huh?” She responds, conscious of the fact that she supposedly didn’t witness the scuffle.

Knife Fight glares at John a moment, unsubtly, then drops his eyes. “Eh, just some guy.”

“Yeah,” John says, also conscious of the fact that she (supposedly) didn’t witness the scuffle, “probably just an addict in need of a fix.”

Sherlock catches John’s gaze. “Yes, I think, in a way, it was.”

Mary burns with anger, now at Sherlock as well as John. It’s all very well for him to draw that parallel. But they’re all addicted to danger, all three of them, and none of them would deny the others their fix. Heroin, though -- that’s a different beast. 

She’s sure there were other alternatives available to Sherlock besides shooting up, whatever case he’s working on. She’s sure, too, that Sherlock was glad of the opportunity to distract himself from John’s wedding and subsequent absence, and from fears about the future. But it’s just so childish. She and John have tried so hard to reach out, so many times. Sherlock is welcome in their lives -- welcome to be more involved -- and he’s just refusing to see it. Preferring to wallow. 

John, of course, doesn’t call him on it. He gets distracted, caught up in the deductions that Knife Fight -- Bill Wiggins, apparently -- is making about John’s stupid bicycling habit. Oh, lovely. Sherlock’s found a protege -- because what the world needs is more Sherlocks. She finishes bandaging Wiggins and waits for them all to shut up so they can go home.

Then Sherlock gets a message and announces triumphantly that his drug habit will probably soon be in the papers. Fantastic. John and Sherlock are obviously not going to have a real discussion about it, but the whole world might as well. Her scowl deepens.

Moments later, John is planting a quick kiss on her lips and saying she can take care of Isaac and Wiggins from here, because he’s going back to Baker Street with Sherlock. It’s not even a question, though -- just a presumption that she’ll take care of the boring things while he hares off with his friend. His friend the heroin user, who does need watching, she’ll admit that much, but really, couldn’t she be part of the conversation about how best to go about that, and how to divvy up responsibility for the other junkies? But no, no -- Wiggins and Isaac are boring, so she (the boring one) gets them while John runs off with Sherlock. 

She’s aware she’s glaring at John without saying any of this out loud and aware that he’s not even noticing, because he’s too caught up in Sherlock. Eventually, she sets her jaw and grits out, “Fine,” in response to John’s request. He smiles at her obliviously. They’re going to have to have a talk about a great many things, as soon as he comes home. She stares daggers in his back as he leaves, chasing after Sherlock Holmes. 

“Come on, Isaac -- let’s go home,” she says, shortly after they leave. (Wiggins has wandered off of his own accord, claiming that he can see to himself, and she doesn’t have any reason to argue.) Turning toward Isaac, she finds he’s slumped in his seat, nodding. He doesn’t respond. 

“Bugger,” she mutters. Normally it would not be difficult for her to deal with moving a non-responsive body. But she’s just so tired. 

She’s startled as Molly nudges her elbow and turns toward her. “Coffee before you go?” Molly offers. “Actually, the coffee here is a bit rubbish, but I thought -- well. I could do with a cup, after that. You look like maybe… erm. Coffee?”

Mary blinks, then finally gives a strained smile. “Yeah, all right.”

Molly gets them two coffees, and Mary thanks her. She tries to take a small sip, to be polite, but the smell overwhelms her, and she turns and vomits into the nearest rubbish bin. 

“Ugh, I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping her mouth on the napkin Molly hands her.

“Are you --” Molly asks, glancing down at her stomach, then back up at her, eyes widening. Mary sighs and nods. “Oh.”

At Molly’s insistence, Mary sits while Molly removes the bin liner and takes it away. If Molly were a man, Mary might bristle at the implication that she needs coddling, especially after the rest of this morning. But that’s not the case, and Mary is so tired that she takes the chair that Molly offers and sits waiting. She positions herself so that she can spot any movement from Isaac; they can leave when he comes out of the nod. Molly brings back two cups of water with her, in place of coffee, and they sit.

“Well,” Molly says. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Mary says, unable to muster a smile just now.

“Erm, I mean, if that’s appropriate that is. S-sorry, I guess I should have asked --” 

Molly is so visibly alarmed about having put her foot in her mouth that Mary chuckles just a little. “God, I sounded morose, didn’t I? I’m just so tired.” 

Molly nods. “Well. It’s been a tiring day, I’d imagine.”

“And it’s only nine thirty,” Mary observes with a wan grin. Then, “I suppose it hasn’t been a great day for you so far, either. Sorry to barge in on you at work like this.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine -- Sherlock is --” she closes her eyes, draws a breath, opens them again, and tries again. “You are always welcome. All of you. Any of you. Any time. You’re my friends, and I like to help.”

It’s a halting speech, but apparently heartfelt. “Cheers,” Mary says, raising her cup of water, and warming to Molly a bit. She guiltily admits to herself that she’s only ever viewed Molly as that girl with the painful crush on Sherlock. She didn’t talk to Molly at all on her wedding day, not really, and they’ve rarely crossed paths otherwise. But Molly seems, at the very least, genuinely kind and generous.

They’re silent for a few minutes, drinking their water. Mary’s stomach settles, and Molly relaxes a little. “I’m sorry about your engagement,” Mary says, eventually.

“Yeah,” Molly says, sounding sad. “Me too. It was -- it wasn’t a perfect relationship. But it was a really good one, for quite a while. I thought we might make it work.”

Mary’s curious about what happened, has assumed that Sherlock’s return had a lot to do with it; John had uncharitably called Tom “Sherlock lite” once, and she’d uncharitably giggled. But she doesn’t know Molly nearly enough to ask for details. “I don’t think there are perfect relationships,” she says instead.

Molly nods, fidgeting with her empty paper cup, starting a small tear along the edge. “I suppose not. It seemed that way, at first, though. He was lovely. We had a lot of fun together; he was easy to be with. And he was so interested in me -- interested just in me, for my own sake. So different from -- well, some of the previous men in my life.” Mary thinks it’s a low bar to be a better partner than Moriarty -- or a better friend than Sherlock, for that matter, fond though Mary is of him -- but she nods sympathetically. 

“But, then.” Molly’s mouth twists. Her fingers continue worrying the cup. “Well. There was a lot we didn’t talk about before we got engaged. Things that we really should have.”

After a pause, Mary ventures, “Kids?”

“No. Well, yes. Well, no.” Mary laughs at the double reversal, and Molly, startled, smiles at her. “Sorry. What I meant was, we both wanted -- want -- children. We’d talked about that much, at least.” Mary feels a twinge of guilt that she and John hadn’t done the same. Not that she’s ever been very good at thinking ahead. “But not about other things.” Molly frowns. “Like, well -- it turned out that he also wants someone who will stay at home to raise the children.”

Mary pulls a face. “That’s a bit stone age.” 

“Well, he’s a university lecturer, and it would be hard for him to do it, you see.” When Molly glances up at Mary’s still-skeptical expression, she sighs. “But no, it wasn’t fair. Not fair to assume I would want to, or that it would be easy for me. But it happens that he grew up with his mother at home full time.”

“So he thinks all children should have the childhood he did,” Mary observes. 

Molly nods, frowning. “Yeah, I think that’s a big part of it. But I, well. It was just me and my mum, growing up, and she worked the whole time. And I think I turned out all right. So I wasn’t so keen on giving up my work. I’m really happy here, and I worked hard to get a position here. And then, to top it off,” she waves her arms and the now partially dismantled cup irritatedly, “he got a job offer in Edinburgh, and he wanted me to move. But I didn’t want to. So.”

“‘Course you shouldn’t have to pick up and leave a good job. And of course you turned out all right,” Mary says. She bristles at implications that children from one-parent households are neglected. And she certainly hopes John doesn’t expect her to stop working.

Molly laughs. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I like my life, and my job. I’m sad not to have Tom in it. But I’ll be all right.”

“Cheers to that,” Mary says, raising her own now-empty cup again. "And with that,” she sighs, standing, “I suppose I should get Isaac home. Texted his mother a bit ago, but she’ll be starting to wonder.”

Molly stands, too, leaving behind a waxen skin on the table, as if her cup had molted and moved on. “And I should get back to work. But thanks for the break. It was nice to talk.”

“It was, yeah.” Mary’s a bit surprised to find it’s true. She decides she likes Molly much better when Sherlock isn’t around. She’s not so nervous or tentative (or angry, as she was this time). She’s just Molly Hooper, quietly dedicated to her work, kind, and optimistic -- even when sad. Mary hopes Molly finds someone else, after a bit -- someone else who cares about her for her own sake.

Mary returns Molly’s impulsive hug, makes a quick pit stop, and then takes Isaac home.

* * *

She’s just woken from a nap and is still groggy when John arrives home later that afternoon. She smiles at him sleepily as he walks into the bedroom, forgetting for the moment that she’s angry with him.

John sits down on the edge of the bed and ruffles her hair, placing a quick kiss to her forehead. Then he says, “My God, you would not believe what just happened.” 

“What?” she asks, yawning. 

“Sherlock has a girlfriend.”

“What?!” She sits up straighter. “What do you -- are you sure it wasn’t a trick? A lie?”

John shakes his head. “No, I know, I know. But it’s not. Guess who?”

Her brow furrows. “What? No clue. The Queen of England.” She’s still sure that John’s been bamboozled, anyway.

John chuckles, but it’s not a happy sound. “Right, and we’re invited for dinner.”

She wouldn’t be that surprised to be invited to dinner at the Palace, given who she works for. But she’s fairly certain Sherlock’s girlfriend -- pretend girlfriend, surely? -- isn’t royalty. “Who?”

“Janine!”

She stares at him and blinks. “What?”

“It’s Janine. The girlfriend.”

“You’re mistaken.” She can’t begin to imagine it. Wouldn’t happen. 

“No, no -- I know, but I saw her there. In his bedroom. Wearing nothing but his shirt. And then in the bathroom, with him, while he bathed!”

She feels ill. She feels betrayed, by both Janine and Sherlock. She assumes at least one of them is using the other -- but why? How could this happen without her knowing about it? And John -- John is obviously very upset.

“That’s … very strange,” she manages.

John snorts. “Tell me about it. It was the strangest thing that’s happened in a long time -- and that’s despite the man who pissed in the fireplace today.”

She shakes her head. “The what --?!” Visions of more drug addict friends of Sherlock’s dance in her head.

“Oh, you’ll never believe this. You know Charles Augustus Magnussen? The media magnate? Well, I’ve met him, believe it or not.” Her spine is an icicle. She listens to John describe the man that she’s been tracking for years, the man who’s been part of her life far longer than John has. And now -- now, Sherlock has finally taken notice of him and decided to go after him.

“Sherlock should talk to Mycroft,” she says numbly. 

“Oh, oh! Mycroft already tried to talk him out of it,” John says, chuckling just a little, telling her about the elder Holmes’ visit. She’s never really understood the childish joy he and Sherlock seem to get out of tormenting Mycroft. But then, she’s an only child.

“So what’s the next move, then?” Mary asks, afraid to hear the answer.

“Oh,” John hesitates, “I don’t think Sherlock has that figured out yet. He’s going to think on it, and we’ll probably talk to the client again soon, La-- the woman who hired Sherlock. Tonight we’re just going to get together to work on a cold case or two.” His shifting eyes make it obvious he’s lying. They aren’t going to spend a quiet night in -- they probably have a real case. And John apparently thinks that she’ll find it too dangerous and isn’t going to bother to run it past her. Suddenly, she remembers that she’s furious with him for other things he didn’t bother to ask her about, this morning.

“Oh, fine, well. It’s not like I was going to make dinner,” she says coldly.

“You -- were?” John asks, confused.

“Also, it’s not like I minded being saddled with two junkies earlier while you ran off to play with Sherlock.”

“You did?” He’s more bewildered. “But -- I had to make sure Sherlock was all right --”

“Oh, yes, just run off and have all the excitement. Don’t mind me.” 

John’s shaking his head. “What? No, sweetheart, it was awful and scary --”

“I know!” She’s nearly shouting now; she can’t seem to modulate her voice. “Villains and henchmen and secrets about my best friend. Oh, no, don’t bother to ask me, I don’t mind missing that -- I’ll just stay home and _take a nap!”_

John sighs, then, and holds up his hands. “All right, I’ve missed something. I’ve no idea where this is coming from --”

“What is marriage to you?” she snaps.

He blinks. “Wh — Sorry?”

“Is it about having a nice wife to keep house and bear your children?”

He eyes her warily. “Erm. No.” 

“A nice little woman to honor and obey you? Is that it?”

He huffs an angry laugh. “Honor and obey? I wouldn’t say that’s why I married you, no. Look, what is this about?”

“It’s about _partnership,”_ she shouts. “It’s about we’re married now, so you can bloody well not ignore me and overrule me when I say I don’t want some unknown smackhead in the car — two that we know is plenty, thank you. And you can check my opinion before delegating tasks and haring off with Sherlock all the time without so much as a please. And you can ask me before you go around telling people I’m pregnant. It’s about acting like you care about my opinion. It’s about treating me like a goddamn fucking adult in this relationship.” 

With that, adult-like, she bursts into tears. Fuck her fucking body, her fucking hormones, her fucking tear ducts. Fuck. She covers her face and braces to shake off the gentle hug that she’s sure he’s going to give her. She can’t take hugs right now.

Instead, there’s a long pause, and when she takes her hands away from her eyes, John is just sitting there, watching her with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. He’s holding a box of tissues. “Here,” he says, holding them out to her. She takes a couple and wipes her eyes, blows her nose. He holds out the rubbish bin. 

“Do you want to talk more now?” he asks. “We can wait.”

“No,” she says. Her anger is draining, she feels a brief urge to apologize in the face of his unreasonably reasonable tone. But no. They need to have this discussion.

“Mary,” he says. He takes a deep breath, then exhales, shakes his head, and tries again. “Mary. You are the most capable woman -- no, you’re possibly the most capable person I know. I married you because you’re at least my equal. Probably better than me in most ways, actually.” He smiles wryly. “If I’ve been -- if I am a bad husband -- it’s not because of what I think of you. It’s because I’ve little practice thinking of anyone besides myself. Living with anyone else. Well, aside from Sherlock.”

She’s somewhat mollified by his admission. “Yeah, I don’t think your relationship with Sherlock is always the best model to base ours on.”

He chuckles a little. “No, I suppose not.” Then he reaches out tentatively and squeezes her hand. “I’m sorry, Mary. I care about your opinion more than anyone’s. I just need to work on thinking before I act.”

She finds herself smiling at him. She can relate to that. “Well. I suppose I can think of a few ways you might make it up to me.” She waggles her eyebrows. And then, as he leans forward to kiss her, “Oh! Erm. Molly knows I’m pregnant.”

“What a double standard,” he tsks, winking. They’re both laughing as their lips meet, resulting in a very giggly, ineffectual kiss. But a love-filled one. She feels happy again, just as suddenly as she felt upset. Very happy. And as he apologizes with his hands and lips and tongue, she feels even better. He’s very good at apologizing. Afterward, she dozes off again, feeling pleased and at peace.

She wakes to find John slipping out of bed. He ducks his head guiltily and offers to change his plans and stay for dinner. But she waves him away -- she needs him gone so she can enact her own plans. “It’s fine. Go have fun. And take care of him; he’s going to be feeling awful for a while.”

John kisses her goodbye and heads out. She waits till he’s gone, then pulls out her Mycroftphone. _You talked to S -- he’s going to do something inadvisable soon, isn’t he? I have to go tonight._

Mycroft returns her text shortly. _`Agreed. Tonight.`_

She texts Anthea to cancel dinner, texts Janine a brief _WTF?!,_ and starts preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Shiny and Lisa E. for indispensable beta feedback. And to Ariane DeVere for an indispensable [HLV transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html)!


	12. Pull the trigger

She’s been looking forward to scaling the building.

The security of the CAM tower is impenetrable. In drawing up her plans, she set about finding an entry point into the top floor, where even if she sets off alarms, she’ll already be in the right place, able to act immediately.

She’s identified the weakest window on the top floor and designed a path up the side of the building to get there. No belay line or climbing harness -- just some good climbing shoes, a bit of rope to secure herself in place once she reaches the window, and a glass cutter. Plus a spray-bottle of goo (top secret, courtesy of the British government) that will let her stick to glass, gecko-like, once she’s applied it to her gloves and the toes of her shoes.

All very Mission Impossible (though with an admittedly feminine twist; Ethan Hunt probably didn’t put on lipstick and perfume before pulling a similar stunt — but she’d told John she was going out with friends tonight, and she sees no reason not to look and feel her best). 

The first five floors are fun -- she feels like Spiderman as she gets the hang of the sticky substance. It’s good stuff, but it’s also a bit terrifying. Hold perfectly still, and it can easily support her weight -- could easily support a dozen more of her, as well. But twist a bit, and it comes right off -- allowing one to imitate a moving gecko, rather than a gecko superglued in place. She focuses on keeping three points of contact with the glass at all times, palms and soles pressed to glass, and she inches her way upward.

It’s slower going than she’d expected; she missed out on the chance to practice on other buildings when she moved the date up, so she didn’t account for some of the difficulties. Keeping her toes still against the glass isn’t easy or natural. She also hasn’t practiced the transition between floors -- the sticky material doesn’t work well on the steel and concrete between the windows, so she has to climb more traditionally there, finding fissures and imperfections to perch on for the few feet between each story.

She worries as she climbs, about John, about Sherlock. The boys have no idea what they’re getting into if Sherlock truly goes after Magnussen. She hopes fervently that they’ll give her enough time to handle him herself, that they’ll stay away from him for at least another week or so. He’s too scary; she doesn’t want Magnussen near John -- nor Sherlock. And besides, Magnussen is hers.

She shakes her head, trying to clear it and focus on the task at hand. But her thoughts keep returning to John and Sherlock, wondering what they are up to, what John was hiding from her. She also uneasily considers her last text to Janine, and the fact that it went unanswered all afternoon and evening -- very unlike Janine. She feels unsettled. Her foot slips a little. Focus. All that will save for later.

By a third of the way up, she’s sweating profusely, and her arms are straining. This exercise involves lots more teeth gritting, face making, and limbs aching than the movies would make it seem. She came up with the plan back before she knew she was pregnant. Since then, she hasn’t been working out as much as she used to. Hasn’t been keeping food down or sleeping as reliably as she once did, either. Ethan Hunt was probably in much better shape when he scaled his skyscraper. She bets he also didn’t have to deal with weirdly sensitive nipples, or with frequent waves of nausea. 

She shakes the thought off, keeps going.

Near the midway point, she turns her head to the side and vomits. She learns that experiencing your abdominal muscles convulsing uncontrollably as you hang in the air fifteen stories above the ground, secured by nothing more than some sticky tape that the government is still testing, is a remarkably insecure feeling. She also worries that someone will see her projectile stomach contents and sound the alarm, but she doesn’t spot anyone obviously noticing. 

She clings to the side of the building, catching her breath, feeling the nausea subside. It’s an improvement, but she still feels dizzy, uncomfortable where her breasts are pressed against the glass, and angry at her body for being so far from the finely-honed, capable, predictable tool it has always been. 

She glances at her watch and swears. This is taking far too long -- nearly three times as long as she’d predicted. She continues.

Two thirds of the way up the building, her arms are shaking, and she’s desperately wishing she’d come up with an alternate plan. So stupid, trying to prove to herself and to Mycroft that she can do everything she could before the pregnancy. The truth is that she can’t. The truth is that even if everything isn’t ruined -- though she still thinks it might be -- she’s going to have to learn to adjust, to think about everything more carefully and approach assignments differently.

Three quarters of the way up, she wishes she’d turned back when she was still only midway. Her arms are jelly; her legs lead.

Between floors 28 and 29, her left foot slips off the concrete. Then her right. Suddenly, she’s falling.

She slips, slides, grabs at the building without finding purchase. 

She falls.

Mostly by luck, she manages to slam her flattened palm against the glass, and it catches. Now she is dangling off the building, held up by a single hand.

She realizes that she’d prefer not to die, despite everything. Stupid of her, to make that an option. Gritting her teeth, panting, she carefully places her other hand and her feet firmly against the window. She rests for a moment, then shakily starts up the 27th story for the second time.

She reaches the highest window, finally, finally. She ties herself in place and starts cutting the glass. It’s more difficult than it should be; she’s quivering uncontrollably, lightheaded, and dripping sweat from every pore. (And, as if that weren’t enough, it’s starting to rain.) She’s also aware that she’s arrived here several hours later than she intended, and she’s going to be running into the later shift of Magnussen’s staff, whose habits she’s less familiar with. She should be keeping a careful eye out for movement as she cuts a hole in the glass, but it’s all she can do to just keep going and not fall -- down, asleep; it’s a bad time for falling, all around.

She pushes the circle of glass inward at last, and as it shatters, she unfastens the rope and pulls herself through.

She stumbles to the ground inside the darkened room and kneels, shaking, in a field of glass shards. She pants, closing her eyes briefly as another wave of nausea catches her, then starts to stand -- only to find an arm wrapping around her neck from behind.

Fuck.

The thing about choke holds is that they’re nearly impossible to get out of. She never would have let such a thing happen, usually, she thinks sourly as the arm tightens around her neck, and she’s lifted off the ground. She struggles uselessly, her legs cycling and arms grabbing ineffectually at the thick arm cutting off her air, as she’s carried into the adjacent room.

There’s more space in here, and a bit more light. She can see her captor better, now -- a giant, muscled, bare, pale arm. Fortunately, the arm has poor technique and is only cutting off her air rather than her bloodflow; otherwise, she’d already have passed out. But she is starting to see purple and black dots. Time to come up with a plan.

She can’t reach her gun, which is at her back and pressed up against her assailant. She didn’t bring other weapons in order to stay as light as possible during the climb -- an error she hopes to live to regret. She looks around for a nearby letter opener, anything usable as a weapon. There’s a pen on the desk, but it’s out of reach.

She gives a few feeble kicks and then goes slack. Every muscle in her body wants to keep fighting for air, but she ignores them all. She waits. Her lungs burn. She waits. As her vision telescopes, and there’s a roaring in her ears, her assailant finally loosens his grip.

She shoves her chin down to her chest, getting it between his arm and her neck before his choke hold can tighten once more. Now she is able to twist sideways and duck her head under his arm. Her feet are touching the ground again at last, and she’s writhing free. He starts to huff with surprise, to grab for her, but she’s already behind him and pulling out her gun. She hits the back of his head, very hard, and he crumples to the ground.

She kneels beside him, telling herself she’s disarming him and checking his vitals to see if he’s still a threat. In truth, she’s mostly just panting, reeling, trying to regain her breath and her equilibrium before she has to move again.

She hears a voice from the other room. “Everything okay?”

It’s Janine’s voice. Fuck. Janine was not supposed to be here. Would not have been here if Mary had arrived on schedule. Fuck. 

She grabs the pen from the desk and moves toward the doorway that Janine’s voice emanated from, trying to stay out of the line of sight. She flings the pen high, against the far wall, and hears Janine gasp. 

Mary rushes into the room while Janine is turned away, looking for the source of the sound. Mary feels a surge of nausea, but there’s no time to hesitate. She stands behind Janine and raises her gun, preparing to hit her very precisely and with minimal force. 

She hesitates, just a moment, staring at her best friend.

Janine starts to turn, and her eyes widen as she catches sight of Mary from the corner of her eye. “Wh --” Mary cuts her off, hitting her very precisely and with minimal force. Except that her arms are shaking, and she feels sick, and Janine’s head has moved; she misjudges and hits the back of Janine’s head harder than she intended.

“Shit,” she hisses, crouching over Janine. There’s blood, and the tang of it plus her nausea means that she just narrowly avoids adding the insult of vomit to her friend’s injury. She suppresses the urge and takes Janine’s pulse. She’s okay, but she’s going to have a really nasty headache. “Sorry. Sorry,” she apologizes uselessly. 

Janine should be seen by a doctor; Mary debates whether to call 999. Then she shakes herself. No time. Fuck. The worst of her nausea passes, and she turns and runs. She stumbles twice as she mounts the stairs to Magnussen’s private suite.

“Mary Watson,” Magnussen says, looking up in surprise. “Did Janine let you in? I’ll have to have a chat with her about keeping work life and personal life separate.” His words are casual, but a tension underlies them. She can tell he’s flustered by the fact that he doesn’t call her by her birth name, and she feels a flash of triumph. She has worried him, has made him feel unsafe. She tucks the feeling away to savor later.

She takes out her gun and points it at his head. He flinches, just barely. “Always the assassin,” he says softly, cautiously.

She motions him to stand, and she walks toward him slowly, deliberately. “Yes, well,” she says, “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You know about that, so I can’t very well let you go on living. Can I.”

“You wouldn’t kill me,” he says, still speaking casually, but paling. She wouldn’t, of course -- at least not when she has orders to the contrary. But he’s not to know that. He must believe completely that she means it, so that when he defeats her, he will believe her well and truly in his power.

“If you don’t believe I’ll shoot you, you don’t know me very well after all,” she says with a tight smile. She’s close enough now to smell him. He smells like sweat and rancid oil. She swallows, barely, shuddering. Her mouth swims in saliva as she tries to close off her nose. He has no idea how vulnerable she is right now, and she can’t let him know. 

He flinches back further from her gun as she draws near. “Y-You don’t want to do this.”

“I can’t let you keep blackmailing me,” she says.

“This w-won’t help,” he warns, eyes wide, fixed on the barrel.

“I think killing you will help a lot of people, actually,” she says calmly, swallowing her gorge yet again and trying to focus on the conversation at hand. “Why don’t you get down on your knees now.”

“Stop! I have a partner,” he tells her as he obeys. 

Finally -- the mystery partner. The one who provided the muscle for kidnapping John. This is exactly what they were after, but she controls her expression, looks skeptical. “No,” she scoffs. “You would never trust someone else with your secrets.”

“No, I haven’t. Not yet. But there’s a dead man’s switch.” He smiles triumphantly while also cowering -- a neat trick. He thinks he has her.

She gasps, faking surprise. She and Mycroft have debated whether such a dead man’s switch exists -- to have such insurance without proactively publicizing it to those he blackmails would take both colossal arrogance and unnecessary risk on Magnussen’s part; he has the first in spades, but would he take such a risk? Still, whether it exists hardly matters. The important thing is that they predicted accurately that Magnussen would say there was one with a gun held to his head. They counted on it, as Mary isn’t supposed to shoot him. She’s supposed to threaten him, to elicit information from him, if possible -- but above all else, she’s supposed to surrender. To end with him believing she is fully under his control with no cards left to play. Only then can she effectively begin to feed him governmental misinformation.

Still, she can’t give up too quickly. She would never give in so fast. “I don’t believe you,” she says, shoving the gun closer at his head.

“It’s the truth!” he protests, jerking back. 

She lets her voice waver with a touch of uncertainty. “Who? Who is this partner of yours?”

He shakes his head. “Ah, ah. That, I am not telling. Nothing in it for me, is there? But like you, he possesses many hidden talents.” 

She lets her eyes widen, and bites her lip. She considers surrendering at this point, but decides to hold off, to elicit more information about his partner. Then she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I don’t care.” 

Magnussen’s eyes go wide at that, and his smirk fades. He thought he had her. He starts to shake, to stutter. “B-- but it-it’s true. He’ll c-come after you.”

“Prove it. I think you’re bluffing. I think I’ll just kill you, and then you will never hurt me or my husband again!” 

She hears something faint. Something downstairs? No. Please don’t let anything go wrong now. Not when she’s so close. 

“Your h-h-husband, yes. Wh-wh-what would your husband think, eh?” Magnussen stammers on tearfully, unaware. She doesn’t answer, but keeps straining to hear what’s happening. Voices? More of Magnussen’s men? She was sure the backup wouldn’t get here so fast.

“Hhh-h-he... your lovely husband, upright, honorable… so English. What would he say to you now?” Magnussen continues. 

She half-listens to his begging as she tries to work out a contingency plan. Depending how many people are on their way, she may have to take Magnussen hostage in order to get out safely. Which will ruin everything. But it may be her best bet for not dying, and she can fix everything again more easily if she’s still alive.

She cocks the gun.

“No, no,” he begs in Danish. He’s nearly sobbing now. “You’re-you’re doing this to protect him from the truth ... but is this protection he would want?”

Then she hears the voice that changes everything.

“Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume,” Sherlock says, and just what the fuck is he doing here where is John how long has Sherlock known where is John how long has Sherlock been tracking her what did he tell John how -- 

“Lady Smallwood,” he finishes.

What? Oh, God. He doesn’t know. (Where is John?) Can she get out of this without Sherlock knowing? She fights a fresh surge of nausea.

She stands frozen (though so exhausted at this point that she can hardly hold the gun steady), running through scenarios. 

Kill Magnussen, as Sherlock expects? Give her time to handle Sherlock and John. (Where is John? God, don’t let him be here, don’t let him see her like this.) Untenable -- unforgivable by Mycroft; ruins all her work, everything.

Run away? She could escape, maybe, without Sherlock seeing her face. But she can’t leave Sherlock alone with Magnussen. Sherlock is chaos. Sherlock will destroy everything; he could harm Magnussen -- possibly even kill him, the way he killed members of Moriarty’s network -- or otherwise destroy everything she’s worked so hard for.

Run away and force Sherlock to come with her? It might possibly work. If John’s not here. Magnussen could then tell John about her, but that’s not his way; he’ll likely want to keep that information to himself for future use.

Magnussen straightens a bit. “Sorry. Who?” He sounds more steady now, staring at Sherlock. “That’s … not … Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes,” Magnussen says, glancing up at her. 

Right. If John’s not here, she can just focus on getting herself and Sherlock safely away, and on minimizing the damage to her work with Magnussen. (Worry later about how to keep Sherlock from telling John. One thing at a time.) But she also needs to appear detached as she does so. Magnussen knowing John is her pressure point has been bad enough. She can hardly cope when John is threatened, as Magnussen is well aware. She can’t afford to let him see how much she’s come to care for Sherlock.

She turns slowly to face Sherlock. She keeps her pistol raised between herself and the biggest source of chaos in the room. She schools her expression to neutral and her voice steady. She asks the most important thing. “Is John with you?” Please let him not be.

Sherlock, staring at her with disbelief, struggles to find his voice. “Hhh-he’s, um…”

“Is John _here_?”

“Hhh-he’s downstairs.”

Shit. She nods, closing her eyes for a moment and fighting another surge of nausea. There goes her only option.

Why, she thinks angrily. Why couldn’t you just listen to your brother and stay out of it? Or why couldn’t your brother trust you enough to tell you why you should stay out of it? But of course that’s not how the Holmes brothers work. 

Magnussen speaks from behind her. “So, what do you do now? Kill us both?”

She glances at him, smiling tightly. Funny that he thinks she’s the main risk to his safety here. Sherlock is, of course, the much bigger threat. Oh, God, how can she save this?

“Mary,” Sherlock says carefully, “whatever he’s got on you, let me help.” He starts to step toward her.

There must be a way out. Stall for time.

“Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you,” she says, trying to sound stone cold and utterly willing. 

Sherlock smiles a little and shakes his head. She sees his intent to move toward her before he even starts to move or speak, and she knows she’s out of time. Make a decision _now._

As he opens his mouth to deny her statement and calls her Mrs. Watson, everything slows -- 

\-- pulse spiking higher --

\-- tang of adrenaline --

\-- Oh! Another option.

Don’t be bluffing. Pull the trigger.

Yes.

No!

Yes -- if Sherlock is hurt, John will be distracted -- too distracted to do anything to Magnussen or to come after the mysterious shooter. 

There will be more time. More time to escape. More time to think.

Bonus -- apparent kill shot will convince Magnussen that Sherlock is not actually a pressure point. Maybe also that John is not.

(This will hurt John.)

(Very much.)

(As much as discovering all of the lies?)

(Not if Sherlock is not actually in danger.)

How close to apparent kill shot necessary to convince Magnussen? Chest -- much safer than head -- but not too close.

Risky, still. 

\-- Sherlock lifts his foot to step closer. --

A wave of nausea. Fight it off.

Focus. Last chance to find another solution.

Top priorities, incontrovertible: the target must live. John must be protected. Of lesser importance, but not insignificant: personal escape.

No choice, then.

Or, more accurately: there may be another choice, but it would take a Holmes to find it.

Ironic.

Pulling the trigger, a realization: Mycroft is going to kill me.

The bullet hits Sherlock’s chest 

(watch the blood flow -- 

oh fuck oh fuck that’s closer than close no no must be mistaken -- 

blurt an apology, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I truly am,” real emotion breaking through --

“Mary,” he says, sounding shocked, heartbroken), 

and he falls backward to the ground. 

Oh, Sherlock, oh, oh no. That’s too much blood, too much, and from the wrong spot.

Panic. 

Clock Magnussen with the gun to prevent him talking to John, just in case -- hit hard enough? too hard? not sure -- and run.

Reach inside vest for Mycroftphone -- 

\-- dial Mycroft, who’s faster than any police dispatcher --

\-- while sprinting to back stairs, slamming door behind --

\-- “Ambulance for Sherlock, GSW to chest, mission abort” -- 

\-- hang up.

Vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is The Chapter. The one I've been working on since I started this story. There are many more chapters to go, and much more to Mary's arc (and those of the other characters). But this is the one I've spent the most time thinking about, fretting about, writing, and rewriting. If you've read this far, I'd love to hear what you think at this point, if you feel like sharing!
> 
> Gecko tech loosely based on [this](http://www.nbcnews.com/tech/innovation/z-man-gecko-inspired-material-lets-you-climb-sheer-glass-n124051). 
> 
> Thanks to ShinySherlock, Lisa E., and Mrs. Toasty for beta feedback. Thanks to Strangelock for helping me by putting me in a chokehold. :) Thanks again to Ariane DeVere for the [HLV transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67635.html).
> 
> Some awesome Mary art for this chapter, courtesy of [elasmosaurus](http://elasmosaurus.tumblr.com):  
> 


	13. Sorry

She’s on the Tube when it happens.

She’s still in her black outfit, though she’s ditched the hat and hidden her gun. She’s getting curious looks from the few other passengers in the car. But she doesn’t care. She’s planning next steps. 

(And studiously avoiding thinking about what she’s done. Box it up. Set it all aside for now.)

Aircraft, train, or boat? She’s fucked up so thoroughly that the only option is to run far away. 

(What will she do after? What can she possibly do? Her mind draws a blank every time she thinks about it. So -- don’t. Break it down. One thing at a time.)

She’s started toward Heathrow (staying away from the black cabs that so often turn out to contain Anthea), but there’s still time to change her mind. The question is, which mode of transit is Mycroft least likely to be monitoring? 

She knows the answer is none of the above. She’s not surprised when the driver informs them that the train is going out of service, and they’ll all need to exit at the next station. Nor when, as they file out of the train, someone -- several someones -- grab her. Nor when she feels a needle prick at her neck.

She puts up a struggle, out of principle.

* * *

She surfaces slowly from unconsciousness.

Along the way, there is silence, then voices. Or, a voice -- Anthea. She sounds annoyed, but the words are mostly unclear -- or forgotten by the time Mary wakes. The phrase “Was that really necessary” lingers, bouncing around her brain. For the most part, Anthea seems to be talking to herself, leaving spaces for answers that never come. Then her voice is gone.

Mary feels before she sees. She feels cushions beneath her body and to one side, a pillow under her head, a blanket draped over her. She blinks slowly, looking around at an unfamiliar room. An office of some sort, containing the sofa she lies on. There are also books, chairs, and -- a desk.

Behind the desk sits Mycroft. And yet, somehow, she’s still alive.

She gets the sense that he’s aware of her change in state, but he doesn’t look away from the large monitor on the wall. She looks at it, too, and sees Sherlock. 

His chest is open. Doctors are operating. The camera, apparently hidden in the ceiling -- at least, nobody is taking notice of it -- captures it all.

Mary sits, swinging her legs under her and fighting the nausea that has become a near constant in her life. Her muscles ache so much that it’s like her entire body is a bruise. 

She looks at Mycroft again, but he doesn’t look at her. On his desk sits a plate of food, untouched, and a cluster of takeaway coffee cups from a local chain.

“How is he?” she croaks.

Mycroft says nothing for a long moment, still watching the monitor. Then, “Critical but stable.”

She swallows. He’s likely going to live, then. The wave of relief is dizzying. “Did I hit his lung?”

A slight head shake. “His liver. The bullet ruptured a vein, as well, and initiated a cardiac arrest.”

Oh, fuck. “Inferior vena cava?”

A nod.

She takes a deep breath. “Cognitive function?”

“Unknown.” Which, of course -- of course they won’t know until he’s in recovery. She just wanted Mycroft to have all the answers.

She looks at him, waits for him to say something more. Anything. Waits for him to lecture her. To tell her her job is over -- or her life. He says nothing. 

“You hired me to act decisively,” she blurts at last. “To make difficult choices.” Her voice sounds angrier, more defensive, than she meant it to. 

Mycroft says nothing, so she continues. “He was threatening Magnussen -- and he tried to disarm me.”

No response. “He was going to ruin all our work.” 

Nothing at all. She feels tears starting, tries to clamp down on them and keep her voice steady. “There was no time to contact you. I made a decision.”

A giant, choking sob fights its way from her chest. “I didn’t mean to,” she gasps through tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly. Oh God. I’m sorry.” 

She doubles over, cries into her hands. She cries until -- utterly predictably, at this point -- she gags and starts to vomit. She finds a rubbish bin has been placed at her feet, and she uses it.

When she looks back up, Mycroft is standing in front of her. He holds out a handkerchief, and she takes it gratefully. She cleans her face.

He politely ignores the bin, but says in what she supposes is an attempt at a reassuring tone, “The drug used to sedate you earlier will not adversely affect your pregnancy.” She nods guiltily. That hadn’t occurred to her. She would make a terrible mother. “Assuming… that’s still a concern?” 

She hasn’t been considering that, either. Despite all the trauma of the night, emotional and physical, her pregnancy is likely unaffected. In the first trimester, her uterus is still well-protected, a mostly impervious buffer against the outside world; most early miscarriages are triggered by chromosomal abnormalities. More importantly, though, she hasn’t felt any of the cramping or bleeding she’d expect if something were wrong. “Yeah.”

Mycroft looks at her for a long moment, and she watches him warily, waiting for some sign of what he’s going to do. The handkerchief, the concern over her pregnancy, the blanket over her when she awoke -- these are signs that he’s not about to kill her, at least. Probably. Even if she deserves it. But she’s not sure what’s coming.

He sighs, then. “Nobody has had more experience with Sherlock than I. I should know better than to lose track of him at a crucial time, even for a few hours.” He stares back at the monitor. “It was my own hubris to think that I could predict his actions precisely. Always before, after a drug relapse, he has --” He shakes his head. “No matter. I should not have trusted inductive inference. I blame myself for the outcome entirely.”

Mary blinks up at him. “You what?” That’s absurd. “I shot him,” she points out.

“Your actions were, of course, more predictable.” She bristles a little. “I may regret allowing you to proceed with your plan in your current condition -- I should have predicted the potential for error it would cause, even if I failed to predict my brother’s interference -- but I cannot blame you for executing one of the only plans you were likely to be able to devise.”

She clenches her jaw, biting back a dozen retorts. She should feel relief that he doesn’t blame her. Except. She wants the responsibility, now that it’s been taken from her. 

_I_ shot Sherlock. I _did_ consider a number of plans first. My _current condition_ shouldn’t be used as an excuse for -- or a reason to expect -- incompetence. You arrogant twat. She considers and discards all of these remarks. Then she takes a deep breath. 

None of it matters. She’s never going to have to face the fact that she killed Sherlock. She’s never going to have to know that she inflicted that death on John a second time. Miraculously, she hasn’t ruined everything. Not quite. 

And, all things considered, it’s really quite a stroke of luck that she hasn’t made an enemy of Mycroft Holmes.

“Nonetheless,” she says finally, “I regret it.” He nods once, definitively.

She remembers something else. “How’s Janine?” 

“She’s been released. Concussion and superficial wound.” She’s relieved, but also guiltily hopes the knock on the head was hard enough to cause mild retrograde amnesia and erase Janine’s memory of glimpsing her face.

“If you wish to leave,” Mycroft says, “the offer of an Eastern European position still stands.”

She considers if for only a moment. Sherlock’s going to live. And if his mind is all right -- and it has to be it has to be she won’t think about the alternative -- there’s still time to talk to him before he tells John what he saw. (Assuming Magnussen hasn’t already informed John, that is -- but given the way he hoards secrets, she suspects he hasn’t.) There’s time left to find a way to fix things, somehow. She stares at the monitor and thinks of John, sitting in a hospital waiting room somewhere, with far less knowledge about how this is going than she has. She wants to be with him.

“No,” she says. “I’ll stay.”

He nods, doesn’t argue this time. “You are to stop work on the Magnussen case.”

She forces herself to compartmentalize her concern for Sherlock for a moment, to focus on what he's telling her. She bites her lip. “Permanently?”

“Undetermined. We’ll need to monitor the situation. But the case has been compromised; Magnussen will be on guard now, watching for any and all suspicious behaviors, and upping all security measures.”

She sighs. It’s not as badly as things could be bodged up, and Mycroft must be even more unhappy about the setbacks than she is -- but she’s not good at patience. “I don’t have forever to wait,” she observes, staring down at her rebelliously changing body.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Indeed. I will find you other work in the meantime. Data analysis, surveillance -- we continue to have need of your skills.”

Boring. But it’ll have to do. On the monitor, Mary can see the surgeons starting to close Sherlock up. She wonders whether John’s been in the waiting room the whole time, and how many calls she’s missed. All her worry comes flooding back at once. “I should go.” 

She tries to stand, and it’s touch-and-go for a long moment, but eventually she’s supported by her shaky legs.

Mycroft looks at her for a long moment. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“No.” The look he gives her says they both know that’s an iffy promise, coming from her.

Mycroft reaches into his inner jacket pocket and withdraws a USB drive. As he holds it up, she sees her initials -- her real initials -- written on the surface. She looks at him questioningly. “You may feel guilt,” he says. “pressure to explain yourself, to my brother or to Doctor Watson, if he ever learns of the events of tonight.” That must never happen. “This is the only explanation you are allowed to provide to either of them.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What’s this, then? My cover story? The one Magnussen knows?” He nods, and she scowls. If Sherlock should tell John what she’s done -- God forbid -- she would want to then come clean entirely. Otherwise, John might never forgive her.

“I would remind you, Agent Morstan, that you are still an asset of British Intelligence. Despite your earlier impulsive attempt to escape, you would not enjoy being an ex-agent, on the run. I’m making it easy for you to avoid temptation, I hope, by providing you with this.” He presses the USB stick into her hand.

She reflects sourly that Magnussen is not the only terrifying blackmailer she has to deal with, but she nods and curls her fingers around it.

“I’ll have a driver take you to the hospital. Anthea brought you a change of clothes -- you might want to wear something less conspicuous.” A nod to her all-black togs. 

Mycroft’s mouth turns down. “Take care of my little brother, if you can. I have never been as capable in that regard as I would wish.”

She gives a small nod. “I’m sorry,” she says again, uselessly.

* * *

She finds John asleep in the waiting room of A&E, slumped in a chair and propped up on his fist. He starts awake when she sits beside him, then grabs her and hugs her. He clings to her like he’s drowning. For a long time, she just holds him and strokes his hair. She draws comfort from him, as well -- and feels guilty for it. She doesn’t deserve comfort.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says finally, sitting back, blinking wet eyes. 

She doesn’t let go of his shoulders. “Is he going to be all right?” 

John blinks a few times and swallows. “They… they don’t know. Physically, yeah, he might. But he went into asystole during surgery, and… well, we won’t know about his cognitive function until he wakes.” 

She bites her lip. She continues to avoid thinking about that -- she has to. Otherwise she’ll be no good to John. Instead, she does her best impression of a concerned wife who was nowhere near the scene of the crime.

“Oh, God.” She tightens her grip on him. “How did it happen?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We were -- Christ. Well.” He glances around the mostly empty room. “We were on a case. Going after Magnussen,” he says in a low voice. “And then someone shot Sherlock. In the chest, point blank.” 

She winces, and it’s not an act. “Someone...?”

“Not Magnussen -- he was dazed when I got there. Someone who got there ahead of us.”

“You didn’t see?” 

“No. I wasn't with him at the time.” 

The regret in John’s voice is so thick that she hugs him again. “Did you talk to the police?”

“Yeah, Greg was here a bit ago.” 

“Any leads?” 

“None. But when I catch that bastard, I’m going to --” He clenches his jaw and curls his fingers.

Her pulse speeds. “I’ll help.”

John shakes his head. “I should have been there. Should have stopped it.” Why does everyone else want to take responsibility for what she’s done? “I don’t understand, though -- Magnussen was scared; he was down on his knees when I found him. Who was there threatening him? And why did they shoot Sherlock instead?” 

A fine question. 

It’s hours yet before they’re told that Sherlock is in recovery and are allowed to visit. Sherlock looks terrible; he’s the color of a corpse and somehow even more angular than usual. The wave of nausea that sweeps over Mary when she sees him is one that she suspects might not be entirely due to the pregnancy. She excuses herself to run to the loo. 

When she comes back, she stands outside the door a moment to compose herself. John is talking quietly. “...and if you leave me again -- well. Don’t you do it. Because I can’t. Are you listening, Sherlock? I can’t go through it again. I won’t. So get well, you great bloody bastard.”

She walks in and finds John with the fingers of his left hand intertwined carefully in Sherlock’s -- something she’s never seen before. She sits down next to John and takes his other hand. Together, they wait.

* * *

Eventually, John sends her home to get some sleep.

“You’re the one who needs sleep,” she argues. “I had a quiet night.” Out with Cath and friends for dinner, allegedly, then early to bed -- sleeping so soundly, she missed John's call a few hours ago. (In reality, she was unconscious during the call, but on Mycroft's sofa.)

“You’re pregnant,” he points out.

It’s clear that he’s not going to let her stay with Sherlock while he heads home. It’s probably safe to leave the two of them alone together, though; Sherlock won’t wake for hours yet, possibly longer. So she leans down and kisses John’s forehead, then leaves him waiting by Sherlock’s side.

Despite everything that’s happened, she’s sure she won’t be able to sleep. At home, she starts to strip out of her clothes -- full of the scents of fear and exhaustion -- and she’s halfway out of her shirt when she loses consciousness.

* * *

She wakes disoriented, feeling like she swallowed a hamster cage, and with a sense of panic that takes a moment to become attached to any specific fear. Sherlock! It’s dark out, adding to the disorientation -- she’s slept through the late afternoon and into the evening.

She takes John a fresh change of clothes and some dinner. After they eat, she tries to send him home (she’s fairly certain the hospital staff would have sent him home already if not for some government influence). He refuses to leave. They sit together a while, clasping hands, watching an unmoving Sherlock. Wondering if and when he'll wake. Wondering if he'll be himself. 

John leaves his side only long enough to use the loo or fetch drinks. Whenever he’s gone, she talks to Sherlock. She asks him to be all right, tells him they love him, tells him there’s a case, tells him anything she can think of that might help. John snorts from the doorway behind her. “You sound like you’re issuing him orders. ‘Wake up at once, Sherlock, there’s a case on.’” He mimics her tone if not her exact wording. “‘You’re an idiot for thinking about dying.’”

She smiles tiredly at him and gratefully accepts the bottled water he’s brought her. “I didn’t say ‘idiot’. But you are,” she adds sternly to Sherlock, “if you’re thinking about anything other than a full recovery.”

John giggles abruptly, a sound containing as much exhaustion and desperation as mirth. (Well, it wasn’t very funny… she’s knackered, too.) His eyes are welling, and she’s not sure the laughter won’t turn to tears.

She stands and hugs him. “Come home with me,” she says. “Come sleep. Save your strength for when he wakes.” 

John smiles, but shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I just -- I can’t. You go.”

She’s too tired to argue. The nap earlier helped, but she’s still dealing with the aftermath of scaling the building, and her pregnancy. She’s lost her resilience. She just nods and kisses John, then leaves the two of them alone once more.

* * *

She sleeps like the dead -- though that’s a less pleasant phrase than it used to be, everything considered -- and isn’t woken by heartburn until late the next morning. And then she only vomits once as she goes through her morning rituals -- it’s almost like not being pregnant. She smiles grimly at herself in the mirror. 

She thinks about going for a run -- she could use the mental focus it brings, and she should stretch and gently use her muscles, which are even stiffer and more painful than they were yesterday. But she doesn’t want to leave Sherlock -- or leave John alone with Sherlock. Sherlock’s likely to wake up sometime today, if he’s going to wake. (Please let him wake. Please let him be all right.) And when he does -- she grimaces as she puts on her bra, which her aching breasts are now starting to spill out of -- well, she should be there.

John is waiting for her near the hospital entrance. She feels a twist of panic in her gut. Is Sherlock worse? Or did he wake and tell John everything? But no -- John doesn’t look upset at all. He greets her, then says, “He’s only bloody woken up! He’s pulled through.”

“Really? Seriously?” She brightens. From the way he says it, she thinks there must be some sign, some flicker of hope that Sherlock is still with them, mentally.

“Oh, you, Mrs. Watson,” John says, abruptly looking grave, “you’re in big trouble.”

It’s clear he doesn’t know anything, or he’d be truly angry, not mock-angry. She frowns. “Really? Why?”

“His first word when he woke up?”

Oh, thank God. He’s saying something recognizable. That’s a good sign. She shakes her head.

“Mary!” They both giggle, then hug. That’s a very good sign for his brain function. (She tucks away her corresponding worry for later -- that she has to talk to Sherlock, without John. To stop him from saying more. Worry about one thing at a time; for now, focus on the good news.)

She and John walk into Sherlock’s room together. He’s not awake. But John says, “Sherlock? Mary’s here.” Then, teasingly, “I’m onto you two, you know.”

She smiles at John and squeezes his hand. Turning to the bed, she says, “Sherlock. I’m so glad…” she finds herself unexpectedly tearing up, and swallows, with trouble. “I’m so fucking glad you’re all right.” John raises his eyebrows at that -- Sherlock's hardly out of the woods -- but he smiles. “You had us both so worried.” She pulls out a tissue from her purse and wipes her eyes.

John nods. “Yep. Christ, Whoever shot you -- I’m going to kill him.”

“But let’s focus on getting you back on your feet, first, shall we?” Mary says. 

John chuckles. “Right. Priorities.”

Sherlock doesn’t stir, and they sit beside him, and then John slouches and slumbers beside him. Mary wakes him gently and finally manages to send him home. “He’s going to be all right. But he probably won’t really be awake for hours yet. Get some rest, so you can be awake when he is.”

John nods reluctantly, rubbing his scruffy chin. “Yeah, I guess I’ll do that. If you’ll take this watch?” he says with a smile. 

“Of course.”

“Talk to him, yeah? Or hold his hand, or something. Just… don’t let him think he’s alone.”

“I will.” 

“And text Mrs. Hudson every hour -- I promised we would.”

“Sure.”

“And just --”

“John -- go sleep.”

John nods, then looks at Sherlock. There’s a long, drawn out moment in which Mary wonders if John’s about to kiss him. Instead, John ever so gently lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Get well. Please, Sherlock. For me,” he says softly.

Mary finds a lump in her throat at that. After John leaves, she takes his place at Sherlock’s side. She talks to him, for hours. Over and over, she repeats the same ideas, hoping to get through to him. As she does, he slowly starts to show signs of consciousness. Periodically, his eyelids flicker; occasionally, his eyes open and try to focus before he drifts off again.

“You’re going to be all right.” She repeats her mantra for the thousandth time. “You have to be all right, Sherlock. For John.” For her, too -- but she feels like at this point she has no right to talk about how much she cares about Sherlock. “For John,” she repeats. His eyelids flicker. “There’s no choice, none at all. He loves you, you know. You have to be well, for John.” 

His eyes open briefly, then shut. “Sherlock?” Nothing. She keeps talking. “You’re going to be all right, and you’re going to let me apologize to you.” No, that’s not right. Sherlock’s never been interested in sorry. “Let me explain, let me fix this. Just you and me, first, and then we’ll talk to John. All right? Because we don’t want to break his heart again, do we? So you don’t tell him.” 

Another blink. She repeats his name, softly. He looks vaguely around, as he’s done a hundred times already. “You don’t tell John.” His eyes close. “You don’t tell him. We tell him together. All right?”

No response. She keeps talking. She talks to him about John, about how The Met will miss him, too, if he doesn’t recover soon. She reads him newspaper articles about unsolved murders and thefts. She reads until she’s hoarse. Until John returns.

When John returns, looking anxious but better rested Sherlock wakes almost instantly -- leaving Mary to wonder whether he’d been awake but pretending not to be for some of the time she’s been talking. 

“John,” he croaks, as he opens his eyes. They focus, with effort. Then, “Mary.” He glances over at her.

“Yes! Yes, Sherlock. We’re both here,” John says. He hovers next to Sherlock uncertainly, looking unsure whether to touch the man now that he’s conscious. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock croaks. John and Mary laugh and hug each other, eyes welling. Sherlock weakly rolls his eyes.

* * *

The next few days are a stream of visitors. Molly visits, and Mrs. Hudson, and Greg. Anderson comes by, and John chases him off after a few minutes of his spouting theories about who shot Sherlock. Sherlock, still heavily drugged, mutters and is only half-aware for most of the visits; Anderson probably irritates him less than he does John. Mary’s just relieved that Anderson doesn’t seem to have come anywhere close to figuring out the truth, this time. 

Mostly, John and Mrs. Hudson are near-constant fixtures at Sherlock’s side. Mary never has a moment alone with him. She tries not to panic, and to focus on the fact that he’s going to make a full recovery. That’s a small miracle, and she has never felt more thankful for anything in her life. 

Still, she won’t feel at ease until she finds a way to sort things out with him. She’s going to have to do so in a way that Mycroft approves of -- she’s all too aware that he’s watching. But if she can just talk to Sherlock alone, once he’s awake and aware, she can try to explain, try to fix things. Somehow.

John still mostly doesn’t want to leave Sherlock’s side. He and Mary spend a lot of time alone with him. Sherlock babbles a great many names — hers and John’s, but also Magnussen’s, Mrs. Hudson’s, Mycroft’s, Irene’s, Moriarty’s. Mostly John’s. Besides that, there are some “Don’t”s and “Mustn’t”s and “Please”s. But no coherent phrases. No accusations. 

After a few days, a nurse decreases the morphine drip, and Sherlock wakes up a short while later. “Hello, John, Mary,” he says thickly. Then he moves and whimper-groans. Mary quickly increases his morphine again, telling herself it’s just for the pain. John nods. “Shh, Sherlock — rest up. Feel better. We can talk once you’re well.” Sherlock drifts off again.

Late in the week, the newspapers try to visit Sherlock. (Thanks to Mycroft -- and Magnussen’s preference for secrecy -- the break-in and shooting have been covered up; instead, word has spread that Sherlock is in the hospital for an appendectomy. His condition therefore garners little sympathy or protection from the press.) Janine has published some saucy tales about her relationship with Sherlock, and several reporters try to sneak in to get a quote. Mary catches the first in the hall -- people who aren’t professional sneaks are always so comical when they try to stroll nonchalantly through unfamiliar territory -- and thereafter, Mycroft’s hidden network keeps them away.

John is defensive of Sherlock’s honor over the stories, but Sherlock seems amused. He’s aware and coherent some of the time now, though still fuzzy with morphine even at his best, and his chuckle is slow but appreciative as he eyes the tabloids. 

Mary tries not to think about the stories or about Janine -- she’s having to triage all the complicated emotional situations in her life right now, and Sherlock and John take priority -- until Janine forces the point by showing up for a visit. 

Mary has been out for a tea break with John, who’s now off to meet Greg -- and finally, Mary thinks, she is going to get a chance to talk to Sherlock alone. But as she enters the hospital lobby, someone calls her name.

“Mary!” Janine exclaims as she spots her.

“Hello, troublemaker,” Mary says with a smile, trying not to act like someone who recently clubbed her best friend in the back of the head. “How are you?”

“I’m terrific, actually,” Janine says, returning her smile. “Fancy a cuppa?”

They walk to the shop around the corner, and Mary relaxes a bit. As the strong smells of the beverages hit her nose, she excuses herself. When she comes back, Janine has a drink and a table. Mary grabs some water and joins her.

“How are you?”

Janine smiles. “Good, now that I’ve seen for myself that Sherl is all right.” Mary raises her eyebrows at the moniker. “About to retire, actually! Sherlock just made me a great deal of money.”

“Oh, is that so?” Mary says, shaking her head, but smiling. “I’m still getting over my shock that you dated him.”

Janine chuckles. “I did try to tell you, you know. Several times.”

Mary twists her mouth and shrugs guiltily. “I know. And I’m sorry. Things have been -- well, a bit wild since the wedding.”

Janine pouts down at her cup. “Well, I was lonely with you gone so long. And Sherlock is -- interesting.” She smiles. “I might have been trying to make Albert jealous, too.”

“How is Albert?”

Janine shrugs and smiles. “No idea. I’m done with him at last.”

“Making him jealous didn’t work?”

“Nah. And he was a bad egg. I’m well rid of him.” 

Mary had gotten the vague impression that Albert might be into a number of unsavory activities, possibly including sneaking funds from his employer. The fact that Janine now seems carefree and happy to leave Magnussen’s employ confirms that whatever leverage Magnussen had with her is gone, along with Albert. “I’m happy for you, then.” She means it.

“So what will you be doing with all your spare time, then?” Mary asks. She’s forgotten how good it is to talk to Janine -- maybe they can spend more time together. “Spa days?” she asks with a grin. “I could do with one after we get Sherlock home.”

“Oh, sorry -- I don’t think I can,” Janine says. “I’m moving to Sussex, actually. And then I’m going to be traveling for a bit.” She smiles. “Been a while since I had the opportunity.”

“Oh!” Mary is taken aback. “I -- oh! Gosh, I’m going to miss you.”

Janine laughs. “Oh, don’t look so glum. It’s not the other side of the world. So, what have you been up to?”

Mary smiles and spins a series of lies about her honeymoon and the time since, leading up to learning Sherlock was injured. It’s so incredibly good talk to Janine; she’s missed this, and she feels so much happier now that they’re together again. She resolves to visit Janine in Sussex, often.

“Well,” Janine says with a smile, “That’s a lovely tale, but not the one I was hoping to hear.” Her tone, even more than her words, draws Mary up short. “So, then, you’re not going to tell me what you were doing in my boss’s office?”

Mary swallows and shakes her head slowly. “I can’t.” 

“That’s a shame,” Janine says, smile fading. “I was willing to forgive the head injury, maybe, if you had a good story about what Magnussen had on you. I was even going to offer to help. I know what a twisted bastard he is -- I would have helped, if you’d asked.”

“Oh,” is all Mary can think to say for a long moment. Then, “I’m so very sorry.”

“Are you?” Janine raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” she says quietly. “That was one of the hardest, most horrible things I’ve ever done.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Knocking my best friend out? Of course it was horrible. And I hit you harder than I meant to. I’m so sorry,” she repeats.

“Mm. I’d be a fool to trust you at this point, though, wouldn’t I?” Janine says with a sad smile. “You weren’t going to tell me. And I have a feeling that’s not the only thing you’ve lied to me about recently,” she says. She glances at Mary’s belly and her cup of water. Mary flushes and looks away. “And, you know, I’m not sure if you were ever actually my friend at all. It seems awfully convenient that you befriended me before going after Magnussen -- and you always were curious about my work schedule.” She shakes her head.

“No, I was your friend,” Mary protests. “I am.” It was never her intention, but this has grown into something real against her better judgment. She swallows a lump in her throat as she thinks about Janine moving away. “I care about you so much, and I’m so sorry I can’t explain it all, but I. I just can’t right now. But I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Please. Just let me.”

Janine shakes her head, standing. “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t actually feel inclined to be nice to you right now.” Mary puts a hand on her arm, and Janine shakes it off. That hurts.

“Can I just --”

“No,” Janine says, cutting her off. She looks Mary in the eyes, and Mary sees that her eyes are also brimming with tears. “You hurt me, Mary. Far worse than Sherlock. I don’t want to talk to you again.”

Janine leaves. Mary manages to walk out of the shop and find a nearby bench before bursting into tears. She cries herself empty, then walks slowly back into the hospital to clean her face. She tries to compose herself and heads back upstairs, wondering if John and Greg are both with Sherlock.

Instead, she enters the hospital room and finds herself alone with an open window. Sherlock is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ShinySherlock and Lisa E. for beta feedback. Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the transcripts.
> 
> Thanks to Wellington Goose for meta on Mary’s shooting of Sherlock and Sherlock’s wound, treatment, and recovery:  
> [1](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/74542270602/mary-did-not-intended-to-kill-sherlock-or-magnussen), [2](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/75415111199/how-sherlock-survived-his-heart-stopping-a-medical), [3](http://wellingtongoose.livejournal.com/28585.html)
> 
> “Critical but stable” based on this [list of UK medical terms](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medical_state#UK_practice), a bit different from US. If you believe I should have used a different term, please let me know!


	14. A bit of a schism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now completed writing all the chapters and will be posting frequently until it's finished. Yay! I'd love any Britpicking suggestions if you have them.

“So where would he go?” Mary says into the phone. She’s come home to try to work out where Sherlock has gone before John does. She’s only managed a half hour lead on John, though, who’s just called to inform her of his disappearance.

“Oh, Christ knows,” John answers. “Try finding Sherlock in London.”

“Have you checked Baker Street yet?” 

“No -- not yet.”

“Maybe he just wanted to go home,” she says, fairly certain it’s the last thing Sherlock would do.

“Maybe,” he says doubtfully.

“Why don’t you go talk to Mrs. Hudson? See if he’s been there.” 

“Yeah, all right. I’ll start there. Greg’s going to talk to Mycroft. I’ll update you later. Bye.”

Mary already texted Mycroft, immediately after leaving Sherlock’s empty hospital room. 

_He’s gone. Do you know where? _

As soon as she sends it, she felt a twinge of guilt; she was supposed to look after him. She’s failed yet again. But all Mycroft says in response is, _`No. He knows I know his traditional bolt holes. He’s unlikely to use them.`_

Sherlock has never confided in Mycroft, but there is someone else he has trusted in the past. After hanging up with John, she makes a phone call. Molly doesn’t answer, so Mary goes to find her in person. She’s sitting in the canteen at Bart’s when Mary locates her, and her eyes widen.

“Oh, hi -- you’re here -- why are you -- did you try to call me?” Molly stutters. “Sorry, sorry. I’m always leaving my phone places. I left it at home today, and -- “

“Has he been here?” Mary interrupts.

“Who? Sorry?” Molly’s being truthful; if she were covering for Sherlock, she would have known who Mary meant, would have at least hesitated.

“Sherlock. He’s gone.”

“From the hospital?” Molly goes pale. “But -- oh no! He really shouldn’t be up yet.”

“I know, that’s why I’m looking. Do you know anywhere he might have gone?”

“No, not really. I’ve never known any of his hideouts. Just the spare bedroom,” Molly mumbles, fiddling with her drink. “Well... my bedroom. We agreed he needs the space.” She gives an embarrassed smile.

“Is he still coming ‘round your place, then?” Mary asks.

Molly shakes her head. “No. Not since -- not for years. No. Sorry, that wasn’t helpful.”

Mary says. “It’s fine. If he comes by here, call me, would you?” She leaves her number with Molly, who promises to call -- “from a landline, of course, since I don’t have my phone, so of course it would have to be” -- if Sherlock shows up.

He won’t, though. She’s fairly certain he’s three steps ahead of her, at least. She hopes he’s at least four ahead of everyone else. She intends to close the gap.

* * *

She texts John. _Any luck?_

_`Not yet. Talking to Mrs. Hudson. No real leads yet. Greg should be here soon. `_

_All right. I’ll stay put at home in case he shows up here, or anyone calls. _

_`Good idea. `_

She makes a brief stop at the drug den where they found Sherlock and Isaac, hoping to find Bill Wiggins. She has a hunch Sherlock might have talked to him -- especially since he’s going to run out of hospital painkillers soon. When she fails to turn anything up there, her next stop is an address she looked up while at home: the residence of Philip Anderson.

Anderson opens the door but leaves the chain on, peering through the gap. He holds a finger to his lips. “It’s not safe,” he hisses at her. 

“I just --” she starts, but he shuts the door again. 

She knocks again, twice, before a piece of paper slides under the door. She picks it up and finds four numbers on it. She stares at it a long moment, then sighs and walks away.

* * *

At the appointed time, geo coordinates, and elevation (half an hour later, in the lowest floor of an underground parking garage), she finds herself once again talking to Anderson. He’s accompanied by a woman whom he doesn’t bother to introduce. 

“Do you --” she begins, but Anderson cuts her off.

“It wasn’t safe, you see. There’s been a bit of a schism, in our movement, recently. And there are some theories about you that --” he pauses, eyeing her consideringly. “Well, different group members have different loyalties, suffice it to say. But it could have been very dangerous for me to be seen with you. You understand.”

“Yeah,” the woman affirms. “Nothing personal. We’re on your side.”

Mary doesn’t really understand. But she also doesn’t care just now. “Do you know where Sherlock might be? He’s disappeared.” 

Anderson hesitates for a long moment, then looks down and starts to shake his head. She arbitrarily selects a landmark and adds, “John is sure his hiding spot is near the Tower of London, but --”

It works -- Anderson snorts and looks up. “Preposterous.” Then, “Leinster Gardens. That’s his number one bolt hole. It’s top-top secret.”

His companion adds, “He only knows about it ’cause he stalked him one night.”

“Followed!” Anderson corrects her indignantly.

“Followed, yeah.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago.” 

“Great, thanks.” Mary turns to go, but Anderson scurries to catch up with her. The woman hangs back uncertainly.

“He’s on a case, isn’t he? Do you think he needs any help? We’re available, if he needs anything.”

“I’ll tell him,” she lies. 

She reaches the exit stairs. Anderson stops. “You understand,” he says regretfully, watching her leave. “I just can’t be seen with you.”

* * *

She’s turning the corner onto the street when a homeless man asks her for change. She says no and continues past.

“Oh, come on, love. Don’t be like all the rest,” the panhandler entreats. 

It occurs to her that she might want a pair of eyes -- he could help her keep a lookout a distinctive-looking tall man with curly hair, alone on the otherwise empty streets. She turns back to drop some coins in his tub, in case she needs him later. But before she can move on, he grabs her wrist. 

His hood falls back, and she realizes it’s Bill Wiggins. She only just stops herself from smiling triumphantly. She’s close.

“Rule One of looking for Sherlock Holmes,” Wiggins says, putting a phone and a headset into her hand, “he finds you.”

_I was doing all right by myself, actually,_ she thinks. “You’re working for Sherlock now.”

“Keeps me off the streets, doesn’t it?” 

Mary nearly laughs at the absurdity of it. “Well ...no.” 

The phone starts to ring, and she puts the headset in her ear. She continues on her original path as she answers. “Where are you?” she says.

“Can’t you see me?” Sherlock asks. His voice sounds clear, steadier than it has since before she shot him. A brief surge of joy and relief floods through her, crowding her wariness.

“Well, what am I looking for?” She glances around, but she doesn’t expect him to literally be visible. He likes playing games too much. Still, she suspects he can see her. That makes his voice in her ear somehow far more intimate than a normal phone conversation.

“The lie -- the lie of Leinster Gardens,” he answers, “hidden in plain sight.” She steps back a bit to get a better look at the tall houses that line the street, but she doesn’t see anything yet. She keeps walking. “Hardly anyone notices,” Sherlock continues. “People live here for years and never see it -- but if you are what I think you are, it’ll take you less than a minute.” 

She walks on, looking for anything out of place. “The houses, Mary. Look at the houses.” He doesn’t sound angry with her. That’s a good sign. 

“How did you know I’d come here?”

“I knew you’d talk to the people no-one else would bother with,” he says.

She laughs a little. “I thought I was being clever.”

“You’re always clever, Mary,” he tells her. “I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find.”

_Why?_ She wonders. He could have just asked her to meet him, and she would have. He must know that. Is this a test, then? A test to confirm what he’s already guessed about her? To confirm her cleverness?

It’s good that he thinks she’s clever. He’s always liked clever people. She remembers John’s descriptions of his admiration for Irene, and how he showed off for her. Maybe that’s what he’s doing here.

“Ohh,” she says, spotting something out of place. She stares at the pair of houses without any lights.

“Thirty seconds,” Sherlock says.

“What am I looking at?” She knows how much he likes to explain things.

He explains the empty houses to her, their details and their history. He’s still showing off, and she nearly smiles, listening to him. 

“Only the very front section of the house remains. It’s just a facade.” He breaths in, right next to her ear. “Remind you of anyone, Mary? A facade.” With that, a giant image of her face appears across that of the empty houses.

She jumps, looking around, seeing nothing.

“Sorry, I never could resist a touch of drama,” he admits, sounding self-satisfied. She shivers. She remembers, suddenly, someone else Sherlock enjoyed showing off for. Moriarty. Things did not end well for Moriarty -- or for Irene. Sherlock is in love with cleverness, but mostly his own. 

“Do come in,” Sherlock continues. As she does so, he tells her a ridiculous (but possibly not untrue) tale of gambling with a cannibal to gain this property. She only half listens as she warily enters the building, checking for potential dangers. 

She finds herself in a long, narrow passage, unfinished, dim, stark. Sherlock is still taking maximal opportunity for drama. He sits at the far end of the corridor, the interrogator; a bright light shines over his shoulder, directly into her eyes. The metaphor is only slightly marred by the presence of his IV drip.

She doesn’t think appealing to his sense of mercy is likely to work. To stay safe, her best bet is to draw out the mystery, to tease him with some answers but not provide others. “What do you want, Sherlock?” 

She half expects him to stand up and take center stage, but he continues to talk softly into her ear. (She remembers what John told her about the night at the pool, Moriarty’s voice guiding him via a headset, and she suppresses another shudder.) “Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where -- five years ago -- you acquired her name and date of birth, and thereafter her identity.” She doesn’t respond, but slowly approaches him. She needs to see his face, to be able to read him.

“That’s why you don’t have friends from before that date,” he says. She tries not to grimace wryly. She hardly has any friends from after that date, either -- and the number is decreasing all the time, as she injures and alienates the few she does have.

“It’s an old enough technique,” he continues as she walks, “known to the kinds of people who can recognize a skip-code on sight, have extraordinarily retentive memories.” She nods slightly. He is also describing himself, and his brother. She knows that being that kind of person is not enough to damn her in his eyes. 

_Come on, Sherlock -- keep going. See through that facade, as well._ Mycroft can’t blame her if Sherlock figures out the truth on his own. He doesn’t continue, though, and she sighs softly.

She deliberately doesn’t confirm or deny any of the specifics. “You were very slow,” she says, simply, coming to a halt well out of arm’s reach. 

“How good a shot _are_ you?”

There’s no point pretending she doesn’t have her gun. She pulls it out and cocks it -- Sherlock does so appreciate dramatic flair, after all -- but doesn’t point it at him. “How badly do you want to find out?”

“If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that.” She nods. There’s no way she’s shooting him again, anyway -- but she knows she has yet to persuade him of that fact.

“I want to know how good you are,” he says. “Go on. Show me! The doctor’s wife must be a _little_ bit bored by now.”

Of course, she feels no nausea right now, and she hasn’t just climbed over thirty stories. It will hardly be a fair comparison to the night she shot him. Still, what would be the point in lying? If she makes him think she’s a worse shot than she truly is, he might think she was trying to kill him but missed. (The fact that she did miss, but while trying not to kill him, is too complex a story to try to convey just now.)

She doesn’t want to point a gun anywhere near him -- and she suspects that whether she does so is part of the test. She thinks for a moment, then reaches into her bag for a coin. She flips it into the air and shoots it, casually, precisely.

She stares at the figure at the end of the hall, but she hears the footsteps behind her, and then the voice. “May I see?” Sherlock asks, not through the earpiece this time. 

She cocks her head at the unmoving figure at the end of the hall. “It’s a dummy,” she realizes, turning toward the real Sherlock. That’s the safe thing for him to have done, if he really didn’t trust her not to shoot him again. She feels a flicker of surprise that he chose that path. 

“I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick.” Not obvious for him, though -- since when has Sherlock done the safe thing? She walks forward and kicks the coin toward him.

He bends down and picks it up, examines it. “And yet,” he says, the pain of bending over with a chest wound thick in his voice, “over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot.” He looks like he’s about to collapse, and she wants to grab him, to haul him over to the chair at the end of the corridor, to sit him down and examine his wound. But she doesn’t think he’d allow her to, and she forces herself to remain still. 

“Enough to hospitalize me,” Sherlock continues. “Not enough to kill me. That wasn’t a miss.” His lip curls, just a little. “That was surgery.”

She looks away. It was sloppy surgery; shoddy work. But he’s not wrong about his basic premise. 

“I’ll take the case.”

She’s caught off guard. “What case?”

“Yours,” he says. She’s a bit surprised -- Magnussen isn’t the kind of problem Sherlock is wont to solve. There’s no puzzle behind his slime and transparent power grabs. (None that she expects Sherlock to know about, anyway; she only knows that Magnussen has secrets because she’s been tracking him for years.) But then, he took Lady Smallwood’s case, despite the lack of mystery.

“Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?” Sherlock asks. He sounds angry, maybe a little hurt. 

_Because your brother didn’t want you involved_ isn’t on the table, unfortunately. Instead, she looks him in the eye and appeals to the one motivation she’s dead certain he shares: John. “Because John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever -- and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen.” 

She stares at him, willing him to remember the fears he faced when he came back and John rejected him. When he wanted John’s forgiveness so much that he threatened him with imminent death to gain it. They’ve both done foolish things for John Watson’s love.

Sherlock turns and starts to walk away. “Please --” she says, starting to follow. _Please don’t leave me. Please give me time to find a better way to explain._ He looks back at her. “-- understand. There is nothing in this world I would not do to stop that happening.”

He turns away again. “Sorry.” He walks to the fuse box. “Not _that_ obvious a trick.” He flips a switch, and the corridor lights up.

In that moment, she knows. She knows the trick. She knows Sherlock never does the safe thing -- and neither does John. She knows everything is lost. 

She looks down the corridor at John. He’s doing his best Sherlock impression -- which isn’t very good, now that there’s light on his face as well as at his back -- and he looks angrier than she’s ever seen. Which is saying something, considering she was there for Sherlock’s return.

“Now talk and sort it out.” Sherlock orders. “Do it quickly.” 

_Oh, Sherlock. If you knew anything about communication, you’d know it doesn’t work like that._

John walks toward her, but stops with a large gap separating them. They stare at each other for a moment, and she can’t think of a thing to fill the silence that hangs between them. Finally, Sherlock sighs, “Baker Street. Now.” John looks at her like she’s a cockroach on a birthday cake as he walks after Sherlock, and she trails behind, feeling empty and lost. 

Sherlock stumbles on the way out, and when they find a cab, and Mary tries to direct it to the hospital. Sherlock overrules her, and that’s the last any of them speak or look at one another on the longest cab ride of her life.

* * *

John is thoughtless. 

Wrapped up in his own emotions, he can’t see anyone else. She wants to yell at him for not helping Sherlock up the stairs to 221B. But she's lost that right -- and the right to help Sherlock herself. So she stays silent as they approach the flat.

Mrs. Hudson is waiting when they arrive. Mary gives her a small smile as she greets them, but wishes she weren’t there. This will be difficult enough without an audience. 

She walks to the fireplace, surreptitiously glancing around. Mycroft will have cameras here. He almost certainly installed some when Sherlock was taking heroin, even if they weren’t here before. She’ll need to keep in mind her unseen watcher.

Mrs. Hudson makes a very obvious observation about Sherlock looking terrible, and he tries to send her away, ostensibly to fetch him morphine, then snaps at her rudely when she protests that she hasn’t any. She stays in spite of the abuse, and she asks, “What is going on?”

“Bloody good question,” John responds, his gaze still murderous.

“The Watsons are about to have a domestic,” Sherlock says from the doorway. “And fairly quickly, I hope, because we’ve got work to do.”

In spite of everything, somehow Sherlock is on her side still. On the side of the Watsons, of them patching things up. On the side of them all having work to do, together.

John, though. 

She shot one of the two people John loves most in the world (the one person, now, she presumes). There is nothing she can say to help. Nothing that’s not forbidden by Mycroft. 

“Oh, I have a better question.” John walks toward Mary. He stops a few paces away, staring straight at her, but more through her. “Is _everyone_ I’ve ever met a psychopath?”

It’s not a good question. Sherlock isn’t a psychopath or a sociopath, no matter how much he likes to claim the term when convenient. Moriarty would have had no leverage over a psychopath. John is a medical professional; he knows this as well as she does. What, then, is he really asking? Is he asking whether she’s as much like a psychopath as Sherlock is?

Sherlock answers. “Yes.” All right, then. “Good that we’ve settled that. Anyway, we --”

_“Shut up!”_ John’s shout as he rounds on Sherlock makes Mrs. Hudson jump and clutch at herself. John, blind to everyone else in his rage, doesn’t notice. “And stay shut up. Because this is not funny. Not this time.”

“I didn’t say it was funny,” Sherlock says. But he stills.

John turns back to her, flings angry words in her direction again. He’s not having a conversation with her. She’s not even sure he wants answers. He wants the universe to know he’s angry. “What have I ever done, hmm? My whole life, to deserve you?”

_“Everything,”_ answers Sherlock. They’re both talking about her, not to her. They will sort out her fate without her involvement. She should speak for herself, but she’s all out of words, numb, awaiting the end. 

“Sherlock,” John says, “I’ve told you -- shut up.” He turns and faces Sherlock, walks closer. 

“Oh, I mean it, seriously,” Sherlock says obstinately. “Everything -- everything you’ve ever done is what you did.”

John gets ominously quiet. “Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine.” 

Sherlock answers equally softly, eyes locked with John’s. “You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way. Hello.” He gives a little wave.

Sherlock is walking a dangerous line here; he’s saying out loud the things that John never admits about himself. But with that last bit, he’s implicitly forgiving John by placing himself in the same camp. He’s also making it hard for John to reject these character traits in himself without also appearing to reject Sherlock. It’s a deft move, but she’s not sure if it will work. She stamps out the small flicker of hope she feels.

“Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel,” Sherlock continues.

Mrs. Hudson protests. “It was my husband’s cartel. I was just typing.”

“And exotic dancing,” Sherlock can’t resist adding, though it’s not particularly pertinent.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson says, frowning, “if you’ve been YouTubing…”

Sherlock interrupts. “John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

John, nearly crying now, points to her, still looking at Sherlock. “But she wasn’t supposed to _be_ like that,” he argues, begs, so softly she strains to hear. “Why is _she_ like that?”

He directs it all -- the question, the pleading, the hurt -- toward Sherlock only. This is John and Sherlock, talking about her -- and about John -- and she’s just a bystander. An observer from outside the sphere of John’s trust. She feels numb, lost. She wants to leave, but she’s paralyzed, awaiting the official verdict.

Sherlock answers. “Because you _chose_ her,” he says. 

John turns away, sounding suddenly, dangerously normal. “Why is everything,” he asks calmly, walking toward her, “always _my fault?”_ He punctuates his sudden shout with a furious kick to a dining room chair (Mrs. Hudson jumps, shouts, and dashes out, but Mary holds still). Apparently, violently angry, betrayed John Watson still won’t hit a woman. She hadn’t been sure -- isn’t sure of any man, any person, in such a moment -- had been braced for action in case of the worst. 

John’s chest heaves. He stares at her with such loathing, she has to look away.

Sherlock says softly, “John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What is she?”

Mary isn’t sure what he means. John, either. “My lying wife?” He’s looking at her, but still speaking only to Sherlock.

“No. What is she?”

“And the woman who’s carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?” She meets his gaze at that and bites back a half dozen retorts. _His_ child? She’s doing all the bloody work, but she’s just the carrier. And she’s a liar? Sherlock has routinely lied to him, with and without his knowledge, since the beginning of their time together -- he’s admitted as much a number of times, including the wedding speech. But even as she thinks it all, another part of her thinks, _He’s right even when he’s wrong. I’ve hurt him terribly -- both of them. This is all I deserve._ She looks at him, dares him to get it over with, to send her away.

But: “No,” Sherlock says. “Not in this flat, not in this room. Right here, right now, what is she?” 

She has no idea, but apparently John does. He and Sherlock speak in near-code sometimes, the habit of two people in a long relationship. She’s not familiar with their code, though she and John have their own. John finally inhales sharply and turns back and forth between her and Sherlock, answering, “Okay. Your way. Always your way.”

Clearing his throat, he picks up one of the much-abused dining room chairs and moves it over near the armchairs. He sniffs angrily again and stares at her. “Sit.”

“Why?” she asks cautiously.

John’s voice goes ragefully low once more. He points at the chair. “Because that’s where they sit. The people who come in here with their stories. The clients. That’s all _you_ are now, Mary. You’re a client. This is where you sit and talk, and this --” he gestures toward the armchairs “-- is where we sit and listen. Then we decided if we want you or not.”

He sounds vindictive, possibly even vengeful about it. But it’s true -- they get to decide, he and Sherlock. Everyone in a relationship decides, over and over, when they have reached the breaking point.

John sits. Sherlock crosses and stares at her before sitting too. Mary pauses. She wonders if it might not be better if she decides for them all that this is too broken. If she turns and walks out.

She can’t, though. There’s still a tiny hope, and she can’t leave it. She sits, and she stares at the two men she had hoped to build a life with. 

“So.” Sherlock says. “Tell us. From the beginning.”

Mary, very aware of Mycroft’s probable surveillance, swallows. “I can’t tell you --” John snorts, shakes his head. She’s about to lose her only chance. “I can’t tell you everything right now,” she amends, “because there’s so much. But I’ll try.” She bites her lip, stalling. She doesn’t want to watch John’s face as she tells him her ruthless assassin cover story.

Then she remembers -- she doesn’t have to. Mycroft has anticipated such an occasion. She reaches into her bag and pulls out the flash drive he gave her. She slides it across the side table, toward John.

“‘A.G.R.A,’” Sherlock reads. “What’s that?”

She looks at John, clearing her throat. “Er, my initials.” John looks pained, looks away. She keeps speaking to him. “Everything about who I was is on there.” Except it’s not, but she has no way to tell him that -- not with Mycroft listening. “If you love me, don’t read it in front of me.”

John asks, “Why?”

She wants to say, _trust me,_ but that will never work again. “Because you won’t love me when you’ve finished,” she says, trying to swallow back sudden tears, “and I don’t want to see that happen.” She looks away.

John sighs, grabs the drive, and pockets it. She feels a deep relief that he didn’t run to a computer to look at it immediately, and that Sherlock didn’t pluck it from his hand and do it for him.

Christ, Sherlock looks terrible -- she wants to take him to the hospital, right now. Wants John to notice something outside his own pain and help her take Sherlock there. Instead, she asks Sherlock, “How much do you know already?”

Sherlock answers quietly, his normal quick deductions coming slower and more breathily. “By your skill set, you are – or were,” he corrects, raising his eyebrows, “an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not.” She neither confirms nor denies, doesn’t ask whether he detects a hint of American or Slavic in her accent. She just listens. “You’re on the run from something; you’ve used your skills to disappear. Magnussen knows your secret, which is why you were going to kill him; and I assume you befriended Janine,” he pauses, looking intensely pained, “in order to get close to him.”

She wants to run to him, but she forces herself to remain seated. She pretends not to notice. “Oh, you can talk,” she says instead. Sherlock’s lip curls up, and he rumbles pained amusement.

John scowls. “Oh, look at you two,” he huffs. “ _You_ should have gotten married.”

Sherlock just looks at him, hollow and sad and raw. There’s too much pain in this room; it’s unbearable, and it’s getting them nowhere. “The stuff Magnussen has on me,” she says, “I would go to prison for the rest of my life.”

“So you were just going to kill him,” John says. And oh, he’s going to take the moral high ground over that? As if he hasn’t killed bad men before.

“People like Magnussen should be killed,” she says, struggling to remain calm. ”That’s why there are people like me.” 

John punches the chair with his fist. “Perfect,” he says sarcastically. “So that’s what you were? An assassin?” 

_No, John -- someone who kills whomever the government orders them to. As soldiers do._ She bites back the retort.

He glances at Sherlock. “How could I _not_ see that?”

“You _did_ see that,” she says. “And you married me.” She follows Sherlock’s line of argument from earlier, which she believes to be basically correct. John didn’t know what she was, but he knew she was exciting, that he didn’t get nearly as restless with her as with others. She was also kind, nurturing, thoughtful when he was grieving. But if not for her own appetite for adventure and her own unflinching sympathy for his violent past, that wouldn’t have been enough.

She tilts her head toward Sherlock, still watching John. “Because he’s right. It’s what you like.” John just stares back until she lowers her eyes.

“So, Mary,” Sherlock says, with a slight emphasis on her fake name, “Any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want,” he pauses, swallowing before continuing shakily, “extracted and returned.”

Of course, that’s the last thing she and Mycroft want. “Why would you help me?” she asks instead of answering. 

“Because,” Sherlock says, “you saved my life.”

“Sor-sorry, what?” John asks, echoing her own thoughts. 

Sherlock, through strained breaths, tries to explain his reasoning, She watches him, feeling John’s eyes burning into her as she does. “When I happened on you and Magnussen, you had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple.” She tries not to laugh at that. “Kill us both and leave.”

“However, sentiment got the better of you,” he continues, and she watches him with fascination, awaiting his justification for her actions. “One precisely calculated shot to incapacitate me,” Sherlock explains, “in the hope that it would buy you more time to negotiate my silence.” She wishes it had been far more precise. “Of course, you couldn’t shoot Magnussen,” Sherlock says, looking at John. “On the night that both of us broke into the building, your own husband would become a suspect,” except that John’s gun and her gun have entirely different bullets, but she is hardly going to argue with him, “so --” 

Sherlock’s every breath is labored -- each one audible, countable, no longer just a background bodily process. She watches him nervously. “You calculated --” breath “-- that Magnussen --” breath “-- would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police --” breath “-- as is his M.O.” Breath. “And then you left the way you came.” Thank God she didn’t actually have to make the climb back down. 

Sherlock asks her, between breaths, “Have I missed anything?” _Only the biggest thing of all. Only your brother._ He looks satisfied, though; he’s not going to dig further. He thinks he understands her reasoning under pressure. He doesn’t, but he’s somehow still on her side. She marvels at him.

“How did she save your life?” John asks.

“She phoned the ambulance.”

“ _I_ phoned the ambulance,” John argues.

“She phoned first.” Well, she phoned Mycroft, but close enough. She’s wondering, eyeing Sherlock, if she shouldn’t be doing so again. “You didn’t find me for another five minutes,” Sherlock tells John. She grimaces at that; John was probably tending to Janine. “Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is…” Sherlock raises his arm dramatically as footsteps sound on the stairs. 

Paramedics rush in. “Did somebody call an ambulance?”

“--Eight minutes,” Sherlock finishes. John stands; she just stares at Sherlock admiringly -- how does he always pull off such theatrical flairs? -- and with a great deal of relief.

“Did you bring any morphine?” Sherlock asks. “I asked on the phone.”

“We were told there was a shooting,” the paramedic says uncertainly.

“There was, last week,” Sherlock explains. “But I believe I’m bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic.” He holds up his wrist, where he’s taking his own pulse. He pushes himself up out of the chair -- oh, not a good idea, not now -- and gasps, “You may need to restart my heart.” the last syllable is a near-shout as his knees buckle under him. She and John both rush forward to catch him, and the EMTs follow.

“Come on Sherlock,” John repeats twice. He and the detective clutch each other as Mary reluctantly steps away and makes room for the paramedics.

“John?” Sherlock says.”John, Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life.” 

“She shot you,” John says. They are all forcefully reminded of this fact as Sherlock collapses, admitting, “Mixed messages, I grant you,” before falling and groaning painfully. John follows him to the floor, repeating his name before finally releasing him to the paramedics. He straightens, and gives Mary one long glance that doesn’t look remotely convinced by Sherlock’s pronouncement. Then he follows the paramedics downstairs.

Mary accompanies them silently, trying to make eye contact with John, but he won’t look at her as he climbs into the ambulance. Mrs. Hudson trails behind them all, fussing and promising to meet them at the hospital soon. When the ambulance door closes, she heads back toward the flat. Mary numbly follows.

Mrs. Hudson turns in the doorway, blocking her path. “I don’t know what exactly is going on, but I think it would be best if you sort things out with the boys before you return here.” Her tone is pleasant but firm.

“Oh,” Mary says, startled. “I was just planning to gather a few things for Sherlock before going to hospital.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mrs. Hudson says, not budging.

“Right. Okay,” Mary says. She turns and walks away from Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Amy P., Lisa E., and ShinySherlock for beta feedback, and to Ariane DeVere for the [HLV transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html)!


	15. Keep watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts to get grim, and it's going to get darker after this. (Ask me if you want specific warnings, or check the initial Author's Note, which I've now updated.) But please note that I've added a new tag: Eventual Happy Ending. :)

Mary heads to one of the seedier parts of London.

She considered going to the hospital, of course, but John needs time to cool off. And they won’t have news about Sherlock for several hours at least, if all goes well. (Of course all will go well. It has to.) So first, some black market shopping.

She obtains a throwaway laptop and a fresh flash drive. Things guaranteed not to have Mycroft tracking devices on them. She climbs to a rooftop, up above the watchful eyes of CCTV, and she creates a new A.G.R.A. stick. This one contains the truth -- a brief account, frantically typed, but real -- the one she absolutely isn’t allowed to tell John. 

New A.G.R.A. stick in hand, she disposes of the burner equipment and heads to the hospital.

She finds John alone in a waiting room outside the operating theater. He looks up, sees her, and a jaw muscle flexes as he clenches his teeth.

“Get out,” he says quietly, not moving from his chair. Her small hope that he’d listen to Sherlock, that he’d trust her, vanishes. 

“Is he -- have the doctors said --” She knows Sherlock is still in surgery. But she wants to know that he’s okay badly enough that she tries to ask the question anyway. John cuts her off.

“Leave. You’re not wanted here.”

“But Sherlock said I’m your --”

“Yes, you’re our client.” He nearly spits out the word. “But clients don’t get to wait for detectives at the hospital. Go away. He’ll contact you later. If he still wants to. If he can.”

She sighs, surrendering. But she has to find a way to swap the USB drive. She can see the outline of the other one, still in John’s pocket.

“Can I bring you anything?” She asks, biting her lip. “Fresh clothes?” If she can just take the old ones after he changes --

“You apparently didn’t hear me,” John says roughly. “I don’t want to see your face again. Go.”

She goes, trying to hold back tears but not even approaching success.

* * *

At home, she opens her own laptop. She accesses the camera network used by Mycroft and his agents, and she finds the feeds from the hospital. It’s not an approved use of her work privileges, but it’s not likely to get her in much trouble.

She watches a grainy feed of Sherlock in the operating room. It’s the most chilling deja vu imaginable. 

She watches John, waiting. He sits, then paces. Later, Mrs. Hudson sits with him.

She desperately wants company, a friend to wait with. She reaches for her phone to text Janine, the muscle memory so strong that she’s opened her texting app and selected Janine from the contact list before she remembers. She feels a terrible twinge of guilt and discards the text.

She knows Anthea is still traveling and off the grid; she’s unlikely to be receiving texts. Mary texts her anyway. _yt? _

No answer. 

She watches as Sherlock’s surgery finishes, a success. She feels dizzy with relief (and probably hunger -- she hasn’t eaten since before Sherlock disappeared from his first stint in the hospital, she realizes). She watches as John sits at his bedside. She curls up in bed and watches them both.

* * *

For several days, she does little except monitor them. She sleeps next to the laptop. She eats in front of the laptop. She takes it into the bathroom.

She watches as John sits and dozes and as he picks at the food that Mrs. Hudson brings him. She watches as he stretches out in the room’s second, empty hospital bed for a few hours at a time.

She’s watching when Sherlock wakes. (Briefly; he’s still on a heavy dose of opiates.) She sees it first in the way John leans forward, suddenly alert; the grainy camera feed doesn’t show the details of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock says something funny, apparently; John’s shoulders shake with laughter. She aches with a desire to to hear it.

She watches, afraid and hopeful. Afraid that John will remember the A.G.R.A. drive (Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock’s laptop by, along with fresh clothes; they have the means to look at it). Hopeful that he’ll come home, at least long enough to shower and change clothes and let her replace the drive. He does neither.

She watches as Sherlock recovers slightly -- enough to move around a bit, to walk as far as the loo. (To jump out the window, based on previous evidence -- but he doesn’t seem inclined to repeat that performance.) John still shows no sign of returning home.

She’s still watching when there’s a knock at her door. She can’t think who it would be. The only two people she cares about right now are visible on her screen. She hears a key in the door and thinks that Anthea must be home early -- she smiles with joy and relief. 

However, it’s Mycroft who walks into the bedroom, carrying a sleek black suitcase.

She’s confused. She’s also suddenly conscious that she hasn’t showered in far too long and is lying around in her pajamas.

“Erm, hi,” she says awkwardly, sitting up and closing the laptop. She’s shocked that Mycroft has shown up at her house; it breaks the rules. “Sorry, did I miss a text? Will I be traveling somewhere? I’ll put on clothes.” Nearly everything except her pajamas are getting tight, but she’ll find something.

“No need,” Mycroft says. He strides to the dresser on John’s side of the bed. “I am not here as your employer. I came to fetch some of Doctor Watson’s belongings.” He sets down and opens the suitcase.

“What? Why?” She’s puzzled as to why John would make such a request of Mycroft.

He doesn’t pause, but begins opening drawers and transferring neatly folded clothing to the suitcase. “Because I find it hard to deny the requests of my little brother,” he sighs. “Especially as he so seldom asks anything of me these days.”

She digests this. Sherlock either doesn’t want John to leave his side or knows John isn’t ready to face her again. Or both. “How is he?” she asks.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Sherlock.” Though she’d happily hear updates on both.

“How does he look?” Mycroft turns toward her finally, raising his eyebrows at the closed laptop.

She blushes at getting caught red-handed using work resources for personal purposes. “As good as could be expected, I guess. No complications?”

“He will recover fully, with proper aftercare and patience.” She can’t help but snort at that, and she’d swear Mycroft also rolls his eyes just a bit as he says it. But a tightness in her chest lessens with the confirmation. 

Mycroft is fastidious and efficient in his packing. As he finishes, he closes and fastens the case turns and studies her. 

“Though I am not officially here on business, I also brought you some work.”

“Oh?” She tries to sound interested. 

“We could use your insights into some Russian phone conversations.” He reaches into his inner jacket pocket, then holds out a flash drive. “We’re listening for signs of weapons trafficking -- or anything else untoward. If you could translate and annotate, it would be most appreciated.” He gives his most Mycroftian smile.

“Of course.” Any interest she manages to convey is pure pretense; they both know its the kind of work she did during training, the kind she could do in her sleep. Just something to keep her occupied, now that she’s been taken off the real case. 

“Do you need…” Mycroft pauses with what would appear to be uncertainty in anyone else. “Is there anything else you need?” Then, perhaps recalling that he’s in her bedroom, he stiffly adds, “Agent Morstan?” 

He’s never switched to using her married name; she’d thought of it before as a nod to either her professional life or individuality, and she’d liked it. Now she wonders if he foresaw that her happy marriage would be short-lived. She shakes her head. “No. Thank you. I’ll get to work on this,” she says briskly, wagging the USB drive.

Mycroft nods again and leaves, suitcase in hand.

* * *

She’s going to have to return to the hospital. If John isn’t coming home soon, she’ll have to find a way to make the A.G.R.A. swap there.

By now, she’s intimately familiar with John’s hospital habits. She knows the A.G.R.A. stick has migrated to his jacket pocket. She knows he goes for coffee and a paper -- sans jacket -- each day as Sherlock takes his mid-morning nap.

She slips into the room. Sherlock is asleep; John’s jacket is in the chair at his side. She reaches inside and quickly makes the switch. She fights the urge to hold the jacket to her nose and inhale the smell of John, which she’s sorely missed; she should go before he returns. 

She starts to leave, but as she reaches the door, Sherlock says softly, thickly, “Mary?”

She turns back. “Yes, Sherlock. I’m here.”

He looks up at her through slightly drug-hazed eyes -- it’ll be a while before they finish weaning him off the morphine. “I’m glad.”

“How are you?” she asks, walking to his side.

“Never better,” he croaks, lip twitching.

“Oh, good.” She adds, very seriously, “Listen, I swung round the shops on the way to get you a card, but I’m afraid they were all out of ‘I’m sorry I shot you in the chest and nearly killed you twice’ cards.”

He blinks at her and then starts to laugh -- they both do -- until his laughter quickly translates into coughing. She helps him sit up straighter and hands him his water, stays with him until he’s stopped coughing. 

“Sorry,” she says, as he stops. 

He looks at her. “I know,” he says quietly.

“I’m so glad you’re all right.” She is. She reaches out and squeezes his hand. He squeezes back. It feels wonderful to see him again; she’s missed him as well as John.

Sherlock nods, then says, “I’m afraid that I have miscalculated. John will not get past his anger as quickly as I’d hoped.” She nods slowly, and he continues, “You were wise to visit me while he was out. Despite his anger, however, you are still our client -- or at least mine -- and I shall take on the case as soon as I am able.”

She swallows and says, “Thank you,” meaning it. She doesn’t want him to tangle with Magnussen again, though. “Get well first. It’s not urgent, now that John knows about my past. Magnussen can still threaten to tell the authorities, but it won’t be near as powerful anymore. Not until there’s more family to put at risk.” She places a hand on her belly.

Sherlock eyes her abdomen and nods. “Very well,” he says. “I shall prioritize healing, as everyone keeps insisting.” Yes. And John can have more time to read the flash drive… the one with the truth, now safely in his possession. 

“Take care of John, would you?” she asks. 

He smiles. “Of course.” She squeezes his hand one last time, in thanks. Then she slips out of the room and away, before John can return.

* * *

Sherlock is kept at the hospital for several weeks, and this time, he stays put. She watches the room and waits for John to examine the drive. 

He doesn’t. 

John -- on leave from the clinic since the shooting, as is Mary -- does very little besides keeping Sherlock company whenever he isn’t at a PT appointment or sleeping. They watch crap telly together, or John reads to Sherlock from the paper. Sherlock receives visitors -- his parents, Greg, Molly, Anderson, Wiggins, Mycroft occasionally, and Mrs. Hudson often. John sends them away whenever he deems Sherlock to be in need of rest.

She’d hoped John would perhaps come home, after Sherlock was clearly out of danger. But as he gets stronger, John stays. She knows then, for sure, that he won’t come home until he’s read the A.G.R.A. drive.

* * *

She should start the work for Mycroft. 

But she can’t very well focus on anything else until John reads the files. Until he learns the truth. Until he talks to her again.

Everything is unimportant, except for this.

She watches.

* * *

Sherlock and John talk. They make each other laugh, constantly.

(Did they laugh so much, when she was there? When they were all three comrades and co-conspirators, and the most stressful part of life was wedding planning? Surely, they must have all laughed like this.) 

Mary ditches an OB-GYN appointment so she can keep watching them (now that the first trimester is over, her nausea has calmed down considerably; she decides it’s not urgent that she see a doctor).

* * *

_`I’m back. You okay?`_ Anthea texts.

 _Yeah, fine._ She’s not, but she will be. She will be as soon as John reads the damn files. 

_`Dinner? `_

_Sure, soon. I’ll call you._ She doesn’t want to do anything else that would cause her to stop watching her video feeds. Not until she sees John read the A.G.R.A. stick.

* * *

She watches. 

She’s watching as one day, after Sherlock closes his eyes for an afternoon nap, John hesitantly leans in to give him a kiss on the forehead. She sees Sherlock open his eyes, tilt his head and capture John’s lips with his own, instead. John freezes, and Sherlock backs off hastily. Then John leans forward and kisses his lips again, just for a moment, before a doctor walks in, interrupting them.

Her breathing stops. 

He --

They --

_Now?_

What is John _doing?_

Shaking with an ugly mix of emotions she doesn’t want to identify but unable to look away, she keeps watching.

John and Sherlock don’t touch at all as the doctor speaks to them. John, standing now, talks sometimes (asking questions?); Sherlock mostly listens. Sherlock glances at John frequently; John studiously avoids looking at Sherlock. Mary dares to hope that John is now panicking and will avoid a repeat of the previous incident. (She hates herself for hoping -- but if he can just hold off until he reads the A.G.R.A. stick, that's all she asks.)

The doctor leaves, and there are more staff, more commotion; it’s clear that Sherlock is being discharged. As Sherlock and John disappear off camera, she scrambles, searching frantically through Mycroft’s network of cameras until she finds the view she needs: the 221B sitting room. 

She’s watching as they enter. Sherlock walks slowly, looking worn out but still in far better shape than the last time he was in the flat.

She’s watching as John enters and pauses staring at the flat that was the duo’s home for so long. He gazes wordlessly, then turns, suitcase in hand, and starts to walk upstairs to his old room.

She’s watching as Sherlock looks after him and says something that makes John pause on the stairs. John walks back down the steps and stands face to face with Sherlock. He looks him in the eye for a long moment, swallows, and then says something brief that makes Sherlock nod. 

She’s watching as Sherlock, looking far less certain than usual, turns walks down the hall toward his own bedroom. She’s watching as John follows, suitcase still in hand. 

She slams her laptop shut. 

Oh, fuck. 

She texts Anthea. _ Come by. Now. Please._

* * *

Anthea shows up and pulls her into a long hug. 

“Oh, God, I’m so glad you’re back,” Mary murmurs into her shoulder.

“Tell me everything,” Anthea says.

Mary does. She starts with the night she broke into Magnussen’s tower. (Well, she tells almost everything -- Anthea can’t know about the second A.G.R.A. stick, of course.) It’s such a relief to talk to someone who actually listens. And Anthea not only does so, she also says “Oh, shit,” with horror at all the right moments -- even the ones she must already know about from Mycroft (“Oh, shit -- Janine!” Anthea says, and “Oh, no -- Sherlock!”). And through it all, she manages to also be sympathetic to Mary. Mary loves her for it.

Mary stays stoic until she describes John and Sherlock’s return to 221B. Then she breaks down.

“Well, fuck,” Anthea says, after fetching some tissues. “I used to think -- before you showed up -- that the two of them might get there eventually. But it’s a pretty low blow for John to wait until now.”

Mary sighs as she wipes her face. “I don’t even have the right to be angry, though.”

“Of course you do. You’re still married. It’s still cheating.”

Mary shakes her head. “He had permission.”

Anthea’s brow furrows. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to get the two of them together for ages.” When Anthea stares at her, poleaxed, Mary laughs through her sniffles. “I’ve known since the beginning that John was in love with Sherlock.”

“And you married him anyway?” 

“Well -- yeah. He was in love with me, too, and I loved him. But that didn't stop his loving Sherlock. And when Sherlock came back, I admit I was worried at first.” 

Anthea looks skeptical. “So, you gave John permission to cheat because you were afraid of losing him?”

Mary shakes her head, then half-shrugs. “No -- well, honestly, at first, yeah, partly. Not permission to cheat, though -- I definitely wanted to know all the details.” Anthea’s eyes widen. “But then I also ended up kind of loving how the two of them were with each other, and how we all were together. And I wanted John to be happy. I thought we all could be happy. I began to think, actually, that we already were all happy, and that it wouldn’t change life that much, if the two of them were sleeping together. So I started encouraging them.”

Anthea shakes her head. “You’re a better woman than I.”

Mary laughs harshly. “I’m not, though. Now they’ve finally gone and done it, and I’m bitter as fuck.”

Anthea pulls a face. “Well, of course you are. Even if you did give John permission, you meant he could be with Sherlock as well as you. Not in your place. You have every right to be upset that he’s traded you for someone else.”

Mary breaks down into tears again at that. “Sorry,” Anthea says, pulling her into a hug. “Sorry, poor word choice. I didn’t mean permanently -- he might patch things up with you, still. And if he doesn’t, I think he’s making the biggest mistake of his life.”

“How is he supposed to know that, though?” Mary sobs into Anthea’s shoulder. “All he knows is that I shot the man he loves. And I can’t even explain why!”

Anthea nods sympathetically. “Being a secret agent sucks sometimes. But he’s living with the second smartest man in England. If Sherlock has forgiven you, John would be a fool not to see that he should do the same. Even he’s not that big an idiot.”

Mary laughs through her tears at that. Anthea lets her cry herself out, and then, holding Mary at arm’s length, she eyes her yoga pants and ratty extra large t-shirt and frowns. She shakes her head decisively. “Get dressed. I’m taking you out.”

Mary smiles. “All right.”

She slips into her loosest, most amorphous dress -- her shape has changed over the first 14 weeks of pregnancy. She puts up her hair, applies some quick make-up, and stares at herself in the mirror. Amazing how much her face looks like that of the happy, carefree woman of a few months ago. Mirrors are liars. 

At the restaurant, she and Anthea order dinner. When Mary also orders a drink, she braces for Anthea’s critique, but Anthea just follows suit. As they sip their mojitos (Mary would prefer wine, but she knows it’ll still taste bloody awful), Anthea asks, “So, have you made a decision, about --?” She nods toward Mary’s abdomen.

Mary shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She doesn’t want to think about it right now, either. 

Anthea frowns, but nods. “Okay.” There’s a pause while dinner comes, and they dig in (it’s such a relief to be able to eat again without overwhelming nausea. Mary attacks her steak with gusto.) Then Anthea asks, “So, what else have you been doing lately? Shifts at the clinic?”

Mary shakes her head. “John and I both took leave, after Sherlock got shot.” She grimaces at the phrasing, which makes her sound blameless. “After I shot him. It lasts a few more weeks.”

“Could you start the clinic job again sooner?” Anthea asks, sounding concerned.

Mary swallows, tries to envision what it would be like to face John again for the first time in a professional setting. Knowing what he’s been doing with Sherlock when he should be reading the A.G.R.A. stick and mending things with her. She burns with rage just imagining it, and she knows she couldn’t stand it. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says again.

Anthea stares at her for a long moment, but doesn’t force the issue. “Fine,” she says evenly. “What shall we talk about, then?”

Mary takes another sip of wine, trying to think of any part of her life she want to talk about. Finally, she shrugs. “I don’t know. Tell me something about you.”

Anthea smiles sardonically. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Mary grimaces guiltily. “Christ, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bloody awful friend lately, haven’t I?”

Anthea shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. You’ve had a lot going on.” She smiles more genuinely. “I’ve got some good news, though.”

“Does it involve your recent travels?” Mary asks with a smile.

“It does, actually. I’ve been promoted!” Anthea announces proudly.

Mary smiles and claps with delight. “Oh my God! Congratulations!” 

“Thanks,” Anthea grins back. “I’ve been shadowing Mycroft long enough that he felt it was time for me to move on to other training.”

Of course she isn’t just going to stay his PA, not with her ambitions and sharp wits. “So are you in training to be the next Mycroft, someday?” Mary asks, only half teasing.

Anthea demurs, “Of course, I really can’t comment on that.” Then she mouths, “Yes!” excitedly.

Mary giggles at that, and Anthea joins in. “That’s fantastic! And well-deserved.” Mary raises her glass in a toast. 

She feels genuinely happy for Anthea. But as they clink glasses, she also feels dread. “So, are you going to be doing more legwork?” she asks.

“Yes -- I’ll need to make contacts abroad, and to become more comfortable going undercover as needed, even if I’ll eventually be stationed in London.”

“So you’ll be traveling a lot for a while, then?”

“Yes,” Anthea says, looking excited. “Loads more.” Then she frowns, voice lowering. “Actually, I’ll be starting my first major undercover assignment in a few days. I’ll be gone for at least three months.”

Mary swallows. “No contact with home?”

Anthea shakes her head, twisting her mouth. “I’m sorry. Crap timing, I know.”

Mary shakes her head. “No -- no, it’s fine!” she lies. “I’ll miss you, of course. It’s been wonderful to talk to you. But you’ve cheered me up immensely. And you’re right -- I can start my clinic job again early. And start in on the files Mycroft gave me. I’ve got lots to keep me busy.”

Anthea looks a touch doubtful for a moment, but the smiles with relief. “Good. I’m glad. And it’s won’t be long until I’m back.”

Mary nods vigorously and grins. “No time at all.”

“I’d love to get your advice, actually,” Anthea says. “Since you’ve done so much relevant work.” She glances around. “Later, yeah?”

Mary nods. “Of course!” 

After dinner, they take a walk along a mostly-empty path near the Thames, and Mary gives Anthea her best advice. They talk through her own experiences for over an hour, and it brings back to her how much she misses aspects of the life she led in Russia. She tries not to feel jealous that Anthea getting to do all the fun things that she’s not. 

“Honestly, though,” she finishes, “one of the hardest things at first is just remembering to respond when people use your fake name.”

Anthea laughs. “Well, I have lots of practice with that one.” At Mary’s blank stare, she raises her eyebrows. “Anthea’s not my real name! Didn’t I tell you?” She laughs harder when Mary shakes her head. Mary laughs too. She should have known. It’s not like she’s given Anthea her real name, either -- though Anthea probably knows it.

Mary pauses, reflecting again on her own time undercover. “It can be lonely, too,” she says, finally. She didn’t really know that, though, at the time -- didn’t experience it fully, because she had nothing to compare it to. She can only see it now, in retrospect.

Anthea nods. “I’m prepared for that. It’s the sacrifice we make.”

For a while, though, Mary has managed to have both her work and love. She hasn’t been lonely for some time. She doesn’t want to go back -- particularly not now, when she doesn't even have compelling work to distract her. She tucks all this worry inside her for later, and she puts on her best face for her friend. She cheers Anthea on, telling her how great she’ll be, how much she deserves it, how exciting it will be. 

Much later, after she says good night and bon voyage to Anthea, giving her a last long hug and a final congratulations, she returns home to an empty flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Amy P., Lisa E., and ShinySherlock for feedback!


	16. Negative space

Mary looks at the flash drive full of Russian files that Mycroft gave her. She should get started on it -- it may not be the most exciting work, but it’s work. 

Instead, she thinks about another flash drive, and the fact that she hasn’t heard a peep out of John in the days since Sherlock was discharged.

She wants to spy on him again, but at the same time, she can’t bear to watch.

* * *

She picks up her phone and types. _Read the files, John. Read them so that you understand. Read them, and then talk to me._

It feels satisfying to type. She stares at it, wishing that sending it would do any good -- likely, it would make John dig his heels in deeper. She deletes it.

* * *

She makes herself go for a run. Her body is more strangely shaped now, lumpy and sensitive and still not feeling like her own, but moving feels good. 

She tries to pound the frustration and anxiety and negative emotions out of her body and into the pavement. To empty and focus herself. It doesn’t work nearly as well as it used to.

* * *

She types a message to John. _Sherlock told you that you could trust me. Listen to him._ She deletes it.

* * *

She frets about what Magnussen is up to, about whether he’s likely to visit Sherlock and John again now that they’re back at Baker Street. She wouldn't be surprised if Magnussen decided to reassert his power over them. To do something that would stir the boys' anger and cause them to act rashly and get themselves in more trouble. (God knows, it wouldn't take much.) Or to say something to John about Mary that would make him even slower to forgive her. Knowing she’s not supposed to, she opens up her laptop and attempts to access the camera feeds on Appledore and CAM tower. The password has changed.

A moment later, the Mycroftphone buzzes. _`Have you forgotten what your current assignment is - and is not? If you do not have enough translation work to do, I can assign more.`_

_Sorry. Old habits. _

_`I assure you, we have your former target under ample surveillance. `_

She wishes she felt entirely reassured, but Mycroft's goals and priorities are not the same as hers.

_Thanks. I’ll work on the files you gave me. _

She doesn’t.

* * *

As days pass and become weeks, her body continues to swell -- belly, breasts. She feels tired and hungry and dizzy and irritable.

Though maybe she’s irritable because her husband is ignoring her.

* * *

 _Don’t be so stubborn, John,_ she types into her phone without any intent to send it. _I know you’re angry at me, but we could straighten all this out quickly if you’d just look at the damn drive._

* * *

Her phone buzzes, and her heart leaps. What if it’s finally John -- responding to all her unsent texts? She scrambles for the phone.

It’s from Sherlock. _`When did Magnussen first contact you?`_

The disappointment grips her lungs for a long moment. She wonders what John is doing while Sherlock is texting her. She wonders how he is.

A moment later: _`John is well. He’s put on 4 pounds.`_

She laughs at his deduction, but it’s a bitter laugh. She knows this is Sherlock at his kindest, working on her case and also giving her information he thinks she wants. But rather than gratitude, she feels a sharp twist of jealousy in her gut. Sherlock is living with her husband, having sex with him, making him happy. So happy that he’s not reading her damn files. So happy he doesn’t need her.

She wants to scream.

She wants to cry.

She texts back. _Sorry, Sherlock. I can’t talk to you right now. Not until John and I talk first._

She wonders when -- if -- that will happen.

* * *

She should go to her OB/GYN appointment. She’s already missed some previous visits. She’s running out of time to decide what to do about the pregnancy. 

Five minutes after her appointment is suppose to start, her phone rings. She ignores it until it falls silent.

* * *

There’s a knock at her door. She tells herself it’s not John as she rushes to answer.

It isn’t. 

It’s Bill Wiggins. When she opens the door, he just stares at her. 

“Hi?” she says, finally.

“You need anything?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I was told to check on you. See if you need anything. If you’re okay.”

“Told by whom?” 

He shrugs. “Can’t say.”

She knows exactly who. She feels angry that Sherlock’s checking up on her. Especially when John can’t be bothered. “I’m fine,” she says shortly.

He looks her over slowly, skeptically, and peeks over her shoulder at her and John’s flat -- or tries; she shuts the door until it’s only open a sliver. Then he shrugs. “All right. I’ll leave my number, ‘case you need anything.”

“I don’t.” 

He shrugs again and presses a shred of paper with numbers scrawled on it into her hand. “I’ll be around.”

* * *

Her back aches. 

Scratch that -- all of her aches and itches and is overly sensitive in turn. Some bits more often than others.

She can’t fall asleep when she wants to, which is most of the time.

* * *

At various times, in various moods, she drafts a number of unsent messages to John.

_You’re probably too busy solving loads of exciting cases and having loads of exciting new sex to remember your wife and the files she gave you, aren’t you. _

_I miss you. _

_It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I wanted to hear about your first time with him. I wanted to be happy for you both. _

_He can’t possibly love you as much as I do. No, I know that’s not true. I know he does. But so do I. Why don’t you love me enough to read the files? _

_I miss you so much. _

_You’re the one who wanted this pregnancy. I can’t believe you’ve left me to deal with it alone. _

_Did you ever love me, or were you just using me as a substitute for him? _

_I am still your wife, you know. And you are still an honorable and loyal man. Read the files because of that bond, at least? Read it and forgive me. I need you to. _

* * *

Would he, though? Would he really forgive her?

* * *

Would it make a difference, if John read the files? After all, it’s not like the truth is so glowing. 

She still used nursing as a cover story. She still made friends to further a mission. She still killed people. And enjoyed it.

She still lied.

* * *

She finishes shoveling the food into her mouth that her body has been rudely demanding, not even tasting it, then adds a dirty dish to the pile in the sink.

* * *

Sherlock lies to John all the time, though. John doesn’t mind. John shrugs. John laughs it off. John shouts and then moves on.

Why doesn’t John see that the man he loves is no better than the woman he loves?

* * *

But no, that’s not entirely true, is it? The one lie that John didn’t forgive Sherlock for -- not until coerced into it -- was the lie of Sherlock’s death. The lie that cast everything John believed about Sherlock and their friendship into doubt. The lie that excluded John, that said he wasn’t close enough to Sherlock to be let in on the secret, to help.

That’s her lie, too, isn’t it? That she fundamentally isn’t what she said, and that she didn’t trust John enough to tell him that.

Fuck.

* * *

She should go to clinic -- it’s supposed to be her first day back.

Her phone rings and rings.

She should pick it up -- she should tell them something. She should ask for more time.

The phone stops ringing.

* * *

The thing is, she couldn’t tell John the truth, though. She’s a spy, she’s not allowed to divulge her work. She swore an oath to the crown. 

Oh, because she’s always believed in following rules, hasn’t she?

The more she makes these excuses for herself, the more ridiculous they sound. The more she sees the magnitude of all her mistakes.

Shit.

* * *

John left her. 

Reading the files probably won’t even change that.

He’s with someone else he loves now… someone marginally better for him. Someone John’s forgiven for his own lies.

Someone she shot.

She needs to accept that he’s gone.

Needs to accept that she’s irrevocably fucked everything up.

* * *

Fuck.

* * *

She studies herself in the mirror. 

Her naked body, now eighteen weeks pregnant, is ungainly and unbalanced compared to the litheness she used to possess. The scar on her leg that she told John was from falling out of a tree when she was young. The small tattoo on her hip -- a loaf of bread surrounding the letters BR. (Even after she told him it was in honor of her grandmother -- her Baba Raya -- and the baking they used to do together, John used to tease her about how the tattoo artist wrote too big and left off the EAD.)

Her body. The body that he knows more intimately than anyone.

He’s never going to see it again, is he?

In the mirror, she sees the first sob travels through her body like an earthquake, shifting and shaking every piece of her flesh. She surrenders and crumples to the floor, fighting and gasping for breath as everything collapses.

* * *

She lies in bed.

* * *

She should get up and go for a run.

* * *

She replays shooting Sherlock, over and over in her mind.

* * *

She should get up and go to the shops. Everything once fresh in the kitchen is long gone, or rotting.

* * *

She isolates and analyzes every lie she’s told John.

* * *

She should do some translation work for Mycroft. She dreads Mycroft showing up looking for completed files. At the same time, the fact that he hasn't indicates how utterly useless she is to him now. 

Unlike Anthea. Anthea, who’s never fucked up and is now out leading the life Mary wants -- undercover missions and excitement. Mary could be doing that still, if she hadn’t fucked everything up.

* * *

 _I wish you were here,_ she types to Anthea. She thinks about actually sending this text -- Anthea won’t receive it for who knows how long, but surely it will be a welcome sentiment, whenever she does.

Would it really, though? Has she really been a good friend to Anthea? She’s been a terrible, self-centered, needy friend, hasn’t she? She hardly knows anything about Anthea at all.

Anthea deserves better than getting a self-pitying, self-absorbed message. Anthea deserves better than her.

* * *

She types a draft of a message to Janine. _I’m sorry. I’m a terrible person and a terrible friend. But I need you to forgive me because I miss you. And because my husband has left me, and I’ve lost my friends and my job._

It sounds pathetic. She wouldn’t forgive her. Nobody should forgive her. She deletes it.

* * *

She should get up. She should shower, brush her teeth. She’s not sure how many days it’s been. 

(Food wrappers scattered on the nightstand and floor might provide a hint, if she could be bothered to count.)

She should get dressed -- though none of her clothes fit anymore. She should buy new ones.

* * *

She can imagine another life, an alternate universe in which she never lied to John and he never left her. 

She imagines the two of them raising a beautiful child together, a child with a thirst for adventure and sense of loyalty like John’s. And Sherlock would be very much a part of their lives and the child’s -- maybe they could all live together, and people might talk, but they can bugger off -- and their child would be brilliant. Brilliant and perfect and part of a wonderful family that loved each other and loved the child more than any being has ever been loved.

This is what she has made impossible.

This is what she has destroyed.

* * *

She should get up and pack and leave.

At nineteen weeks, she can still end the pregnancy, then end this facade of a marriage and a career.

She should start over. 

There’s nothing left here except the negative space of what could have been.

* * *

She’s good at that, though, isn’t she? Destroying everything and then running away?

This wouldn’t be the first time.

* * *

When her mother died, she enlisted without telling a soul. She ran away from everything that would have been hard. Rebuilding the friendships that had waned while her mother was ill. Maybe even reaching out to her father.

It was easier to just run away, to leave behind her hometown and those wrecks of relationships without telling anyone, wasn’t it?

* * *

When Mycroft showed up to ask her to be a spy, she left behind a great deal. She had new fledgling friendships with a few of the other combat medical technician trainees. She had a plan to work her way up in the ranks, to build a career, to save lives. 

It was easier to trash all those plans for the chance at a bit of excitement and a silly childhood dream, though. She walked away without looking back.

* * *

More friendships started and abandoned when training with the CIA. And again, in Moscow. Building anything, including relationships, is hard. Running away was easier. 

Creating things, saving lives, doing good in the world, is also hard. In Moscow, she’d been positively gleeful about assassinating people (terrible people, to be sure), ending lives. Even as she was simultaneously destroying any chance at her own safety and stability.

* * *

She builds nothing. Preserves nothing, improves nothing -- even the people she’s treated at the clinic have been just a cover for her job. Her friendships and relationships have been built on lies, and they have all crumbled thanks to her.

She comes, she destroys, she leaves.

* * *

The nurse in her recognizes some aspects of her thinking as symptomatic of depression. (The fake nurse; sure, she trained, but then she abandoned the role and has never practiced except briefly, as part of a cover story.) But even if she arrived at this point partly thanks to depression, she also can see that her recent introspection has uncovered some hard truths. And it’s long past time for some truth.

* * *

The fantasy she spun of herself and John and their perfect family is just that, isn’t it? A fantasy. She could never have that. She could never be a mother. She can’t even handle pregnancy.

A real mother wouldn’t spend her pregnancy regretting and resenting all the things she had to give up doing. 

A real mother wouldn’t miss her appointments and lie to the doctor.

A real mother wouldn’t scale a thirty story building or engage in potentially deadly combat, endangering both their lives.

A real mother wouldn’t be so selfishly destructive.

She’s botched this entire pregnancy -- the full first half, at this point -- but it’s just as well. She could never be a mother.

* * *

Her stomach twists uncomfortably.

She should eat.

Should she eat?

* * *

She should go to the doctor and end the pregnancy. 

And then she should leave town and start over.

* * *

Should she, though?

Is it time to enact this cycle again?

Time to take the coward’s way out, and run? 

Time to inflict herself on new people, tell new lies, and start ruining a new set of lives?

* * *

No.

* * *

She has destroyed everything, fucked everything up, her whole life. 

Through multiple lives, starting to build something, then burning everything to the ground.

Time to end this cycle.

* * *

She texts Bill Wiggins. _I need something._

He knocks on the door less than a minute later. She nearly passes out getting out of bed; she has to wait for her vision to clear and hang onto the dresser. When did she become such a contemptible weakling?

She shuffles to the door, opens it, and stares at Wiggins. “How long have you been hanging around outside my flat?” Her voice, unused, comes out as a croak.

He shrugs. “Dunno… weeks, I guess?”

She shakes her head. Great, she’s destroying his life, too -- one more person stuck dealing with her bullshit.

She gets right to it. “I need --” She clears her throat. “I need a drug called Elavil. 150 milligram pills; one month’s supply.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Amitriptyline?” His drug knowledge is wider than she expected -- Sherlock said he was a chemist, but she’d taken it as a euphemism. “That’s a tricyclic antidepressant. Strong one.”

She smiles just a little, bites her lip, lowers her eyes. (She’s been told she’s very winning when she does this.) “Yeah. If you’ve been watching my flat this whole time, you probably know I haven’t been doing that great. I think it’s about time to change that.

“I have an appointment with a psychiatrist,” she lies, “but she can’t see me for a month, and that’s a long time to wait -- and it takes a while for the drug to build up enough in your system to begin to help. I thought maybe I should get a head start.”

He nods, looking relieved. “Glad you’re going to see someone. You know this is a strong one though, right? Tricyclics are easy to OD on.”

He’s a good chemist. She nods and twists her mouth. “Believe me, I know. But there aren’t that many safe for pregnant women -- ” wrap it in truth, then continue the lie “-- and this is the only one out of those that I’ve had good experiences with in the past.” She smiles sadly. “Unfortunately, this isn’t my first go-round with depression.”

His frown clears, and he smiles. “Right. You’re a nurse -- course you know what you’re doing. I’ll get some this afternoon.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s fast. Thanks.”

“I know a guy who should be able to help. And I was getting worried about you. Don’t like having to tell Shezza that you’re still not showing your face. I’m glad you’re doing something.”

She nods, looking down. “Me too.”

* * *

She stares at the pill bottle. 

Too much of a good thing is a common issue in medicine.

Take a pill every day for a month, maybe you’ll feel better.

Take a month’s pills in a day, you won’t have to worry about it any more.

The thing is, even if she makes herself happier, it will be artificial. She’ll still be a fuckup. She’ll still be a force of destruction in everyone else’s lives.

So it’s not really much of a choice, is it?

* * *

There are some people she should apologize to, though.

She calls Janine. The number has been disconnected.

She calls John. She gets his voicemail. She hangs up.

There are others she’d like to talk to. But they might understand why she was calling. Too risky.

* * *

She doesn’t own anything of any worth. Her gun is nice; maybe Mycroft will want it. 

She doesn’t want to use the gun, though; too messy. She doesn’t want her friends to have to clean that up.

Not that she’s ever had any trouble shooting her friends with it. She supposes recovering from that is much more annoying than cleaning up after her.

Still. She doesn’t want to be any more bother.

* * *

John might be sad for a bit. Sherlock, even, perhaps. But they’re better off without her, and they have each other.

Anthea might be sad for a bit, maybe. But Mary is a crap friend and a burden who Anthea probably only puts up with for her employer’s sake, anyway.

* * *

She writes a few very brief letters -- she’s never been very good with the written word, and she can’t possibly convey everything she needs to -- then seals them in envelopes with the names of the few people she loves.

* * *

Mary lies in bed, staring at the pill bottle in her hand. She feels a flutter in her stomach; her digestive system is unhappy with her -- which is impressive, because she can’t remember the last time she ate.

* * *

She’s never really believed in God, never seen anyone watching out for her. She hopes there isn’t one. She just wants oblivion, after this.

* * *

As she contemplates the pills further, she feels something. It feels like popcorn kernels exploding -- and her belly is the kettle. 

It’s a sensation unlike any she’s ever had.

Oh.

She’s aware that some women mistake their baby’s first movements for indigestion or gas. But she hadn’t put that together with the recent fluttery feeling in her gut. (She’s had a few things on her mind.)

This isn’t indigestion, though. It’s the baby moving.

Oh.

It’s her baby.

* * *

The shock of it propels her out of bed.

She finds herself in the sitting room, staring out the window. She watches the sun set, still clutching the pill bottle.

She doesn’t think. She just feels. Feels nothing, for a while -- then a brief staccato stab.

It shouldn’t make a difference, should it? The baby was almost as developed yesterday.  
But now -- now she knows where her (his?) elbow (knee? foot? fist?) is. Now she’s imagined how he (she?) might be sitting, what her baby might be doing.

Her baby is about the size of a mango right now, she’s pretty sure. (Or a banana, maybe? Something like that.) And she (he?) is turning around inside of her. 

The knowledge is overwhelming.

* * *

She’s spent so long thinking about the pregnancy as a condition. Something that took over her body and disabled it. Something destructive. Something to recover from.

It’s all true. Still.

But it’s not the whole picture, is it? 

It’s also a process. A process of creating a baby. Hers and John’s.

* * *

She wonders what this tiny person that she and John have created looks like.

She thinks about John’s baby photos again. The adventurous glint in his eye, even when he was still shy of two years old. The glance upward from under raised eyebrows, looking up from two fists full of biscuits.

She wants to see the face of their own child.

She wants it very badly.

* * *

What if, in spite of every mistake, she hasn’t fucked this up? What if their child is still healthy and growing and beautiful?

* * *

She’s not ready to have children yet.

When will she be, though?

She’s been not ready for years. She’s nearly out of time when she can do this. And, whether she’s ready or not, this child is here now.

* * *

There will never be a time when a child doesn’t mean sacrifice, will there?

But everything comes with a cost. There are always paths not taken.

(Even Anthea’s path has costs.)

* * *

She doesn’t want to raise a child alone.

She doesn’t want to be the sole caretaker for a baby in a world where everyone she's ever cared about has died or left or been chased away.

Millions of women manage single motherhood, though. 

Is she afraid? Afraid of a little hard work?

* * *

She is afraid.

No question.

She can do hard things. She can do grueling and dirty and exhausting. That’s not it.

She’s afraid because even if she changes her mind about wanting to raise this child, she hasn’t changed. She’s still a force of destruction. Hasn’t she proven it?

She is desperately afraid of destroying someone else’s life besides her own (and possibly John’s, and Sherlock’s, and Janine’s).

But she imagines John’s child, and hers -- a person she’s aching to meet.

She bites her lip, and she wonders.

* * *

What if she didn’t ruin this child’s life?

What if she tried to do better?

Would it matter?

Does she dare try?

Does she dare not try?

* * *

There’s another flutter as the baby punches her (kicks her? elbows her?) again.

She half laughs, half sobs, rubbing a hand over her belly. “You’re just like your father -- always punching things.” 

She wipes the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “He’s a good man. You’d like him.”

* * *

John might be better off without her. But without the baby? 

She imagines John holding their infant, staring at the tiny face with a delight, fascination, and joy formerly reserved for Sherlock -- and Mary, back before she wrecked everything. He would be such a good father. She hopes to see that.

And a small hope -- probably irrational, but not something she can entirely dismiss -- _he can’t ignore me forever if I’m raising his child. And maybe he’ll want to help. Maybe this could bring us together again._

* * *

Even if it doesn’t bring them together, though. Even if John is done with her -- with both of them -- for good. 

She still wants to hold their child. (How can she feel such a longing for something she’s never done?)

She wants to take care of and raise and teach and love her (him?).

Their child can still be happy. A blond imp who causes endless mischief and has a fantastic smile. And who never need feel lonely or unloved.

Mary hasn’t destroyed this possible path yet.

* * *

She watches the sun rise. Inside, her child shifts, restless. 

“All right, _holubka,_ ” she soothes. She remembers her grandmother and mother calling her this -- ‘little dove’ -- when she was a child. “Don’t fret. I’m not leaving you.” 

She gets up and walks to the bathroom, still holding the pill bottle. She opens the container and pulls out a single capsule. Looking herself in the eye in the mirror, she swallows it. Then she closes the bottle and puts the rest of the pills away in the medicine cabinet.

She climbs into bed for a few hours of sleep, her hand on her belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I forget who all contributed ideas for Mary's secret tattoo! I recall that strangelock and bandersnatchmycummerbund both submitted great ideas, as did others. Thank you to them and to everyone who sent me suggestions on Tumblr! I didn't end up using any single suggestion, but combined several ideas and was inspired by many.
> 
> Thank you to Lisa E., ShinySherlock, and Amy P. for especially extensive beta help with this chapter. Shiny and Amy were indispensable in my efforts to portray Mary's pregnancy (though any errors are my own), and Amy deserves particular thanks for spending an evening during my last visit discussing how to make this portion of the story work. :)


	17. Surfacing

Over the next three and a half months, nearly everything changes.

Not all at once. At first, most of the changes are gradual; it feels like surfacing from a deep sleep. Like the days after the winter solstice, when it seems there might be more light than before, but it also seems it might be just imagination. She moves slowly at first, and she focuses first just on the essentials, but accomplishes more with every passing day. Her daughter, her restless holubka, moves often now, encouraging her. 

Her habits change. She goes to the OB/GYN immediately and often -- at first in a panic that she’s already ruined her baby’s life with her previous lies and neglect, but later, after the tests say otherwise, for regular checkups on her and her improbably healthy, perfect daughter. (A daughter! She smiles and begins talking to her baby about things she liked when she was a little girl.) In between, she takes her supplements and eats an impossible amount of food. 

Her job changes. She officially quits her job at the clinic, unwilling to pretend everything is normal when John is there. She also tells Mycroft she’s going on maternity leave early. In reality, she suspects she’s quitting the service for good. No more lying about who she fundamentally is -- even if John never takes her back, she doesn’t want to lie to her daughter.

She starts volunteering at a clinic treating veterans with PTSD. Few want the job -- it’s dangerous and unpredictable when the veterans have flashbacks, and tragic when they break down and cry. She loves it, and she’s good at it. When they ask if they can hire her on as an employee in the future, once her baby’s born, she’s delighted.

Her flat changes. (It was once her and John’s flat; she mostly stops thinking of it as such as time goes by and she hears nothing from him.) She gradually converts the guest room to a nursery and begins buying things her daughter will need. (At one point a beautiful mahogany crib appears, which she didn’t order. The card beneath the red bow says, simply, _M._ She sends a text on the now dormant Mycroftphone -- _Thanks._ )

Her body changes (and her entire wardrobe with it). Her skin itches and stretches. Every part of her aches or tingles or cramps or swells -- or all of the above. She is never comfortable. She eats constantly, tries to sleep all the time (but with less success than ever before), urinates incessantly -- but has to take pills in order to defecate.

Her physical capabilities change. After a brief return to running, she switches to jogging and eventually mostly takes walks. Her vision swims and she fights for air every time she climbs a hill or stairs. She’s no longer nimble, and no longer capable of lifting heavy things. She feels both restless and tired all the time. At night, she tosses and turns, trying to ease pain in her hips and an itching, crawling discomfort in her legs.

Her mind changes. This child that she never wanted now occupies most her thoughts, waking and sleeping. Her anxieties, especially, are omnipresent.

She dreams her daughter has no eyes or no limbs. That she’s born with a vulture’s head, and it’s Mary’s fault for not taking proper care during the pregnancy. She dreams her child is healthy, but she forgets her on the subway platform; in a locked car; in a secret room in the flat that Mary had forgotten, where her cries go unheard for days. Mary watches, helpless, as her daughter finds and plays with her loaded gun.

Amid the grim visions, though, there’s so much anticipation and joy -- more than she ever would have predicted. 

She dreams -- asleep and awake -- about holding her child. About her daughter’s expressions, smile, her rapt curiosity and delight as she explores the world. She imagines reading to her daughter -- she finds and purchases some of her favorite books that her mother and grandmother read to her. Imagines singing to her. She imagines patching up her scrapes, watching her learn to run and swim and climb. She imagines taking her daughter on adventures, showing her every corner of the world that Mary has previously loved, and discovering new ones together.

She thinks about her daughter’s tiny body, hands, face. Will her eyes be her mother’s or her father’s? Will her chin be square or pointy? Who will she look like when she laughs? Mary dreams about every possible face, and loves them all.

She researches nannies and daycares; she’ll need a great deal of help, and her pay from her time in the service should cover it. But her heart breaks already at the idea of giving her daughter up for hours each day. She’s a bit frightened by how attached she can feel to someone she’s never met. At times she’s still frustrated and terrified about how much she’ll be tied down in the future, how huge a commitment she’s making. But the alternative -- giving her daughter up to be cared for by another -- seems even worse.

Nearly everything in her life changes, but one thing does not. John doesn’t contact her. (Sherlock doesn’t, either, though she periodically still sees Wiggins lurking and observing her.) She misses John still, so much -- and Sherlock, and Janine, and for the moment Anthea; her life is lonely -- but most of all, John. But she begins to accept it, to grieve over the loss, and to prepare to move on. 

There’s one thing she needs to do before she does, though. She needs to take down Magnussen.

* * *

She’s tried, but she can’t leave well enough alone. She doesn’t trust Magnussen not to go after John and Sherlock. And she doesn’t trust him not to threaten to separate her from her daughter -- she can’t keep custody if her alleged crimes get out. She wishes she could ask Sherlock for help and trust him not to go haring off alone to confront Magnussen again directly. But his track record on that front is not good. And she still can’t bear to talk to him, with the wound of John’s leaving her so fresh. 

(She does worry that Sherlock might take matters into her own hands, though. She collars Wiggins at one point, while he’s attempting to pretend he’s not spying on her, and makes him promise to let her know if Sherlock appears to be gearing up to go after Magnussen. She impresses upon him that Sherlock may die if he goes after Magnussen without talking to her first. Wiggins stutters that he’s seen no signs of such actions on Sherlock’s part at all, but that he’ll let her know, before he goes back to pretending to be coincidentally buying groceries at her local shopping mart.)

When it comes to Magnussen, she can’t count on Mycroft, either. While she knows that Mycroft cares about her and Sherlock both (and John by proxy at least), she doesn’t trust that he’ll prioritize any of them ahead of what he sees as the good of the realm. She’ll have to take Magnussen down herself.

Mycroft will be royally pissed off. But it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. 

Before she eliminates Magnussen, she needs to identify his secret partner, if he truly has one. The dead man’s switch he mentioned when she threatened to shoot him might be real, and someone else might gain all his information when she takes him out. She needs to be prepared to take them out, too.

Unfortunately, she can’t track Magnussen via her usual means. She lacks access to her old work databases and camera feeds; Mycroft has made it clear that he’s watching her use of work resources. 

She can’t do it alone, though; she needs help. A great deal of help to sort through all the information about Magnussen’s possible associates and get farther than she did before. She needs someone with unreasonable, obsessive dedication and an eye for detail. 

She knows just who to talk to.

* * *

Anderson and the remnants of the Sherlock Holmes fan club eagerly take the case.

Their meetings are clandestine -- often just Anderson and Mary in an ever-changing location -- to avoid the eyes of Mycroft and Mary-haters alike. Mary breaks some of her official oaths and tells them much of what she knows about Magnussen. She encourages them to cast their nets broadly, and she hopes they’ll think differently enough about the problem to spot something that she missed in the time she spent looking for his secret partner. 

They cast their nets very broad, and they come up with many theories. Too many theories, but none of them terribly compelling. She rules out immediately the ones where Magnussen’s secret partner is Mycroft -- or a member of the royal family. She argues with Anderson and the others about the rest. 

“Many of the people you’re suggesting are related to Moriarty. What evidence is there that Magnussen had anything to do with him?”

Anderson frowns. “Moriarty is connected to nearly everyone in the world of crime,” he argues. 

“Was, you mean.” 

“Actually, some of us think he’s not dead --” 

“Right,” she cuts him off, trying not to roll her eyes. “Noted. Back to their connection.” 

“Well,” he continues, “They must have had contacts in common, at minimum. Given their mutual interest in power and information.” Mary frowns, still skeptical. “And at least ten of Moriarty’s network could plausibly have met with Magnussen a number of times.”

“Yes, but how many of them are dead now?” she asks, half amused, half exasperated.

“Eight of them, if you believe the papers. Which, of course, Magnussen runs.” He raises his eyebrows significantly. She sighs. He continues, “Of the remaining two, Helen thinks Ivana Belova. She was in Moscow every time Magnussen was there, and she uses blackmail.”

Mary frowns. They’ve been through her dossier before, along with dozens of others. “She uses it clumsily, without finesse. And she lives in Moscow -- not much of a coincidence.”

Anderson nods. “That’s why I still think it’s Sebastian O’Morain.”

“But why?” Mary asks. “He’s an Irish terrorist. A bomber, What do he and Magnussen have in common?”

Anderson argues, “He helped supply muscle and weapons expertise to Moriarty and his associates on a number of occasions. Maybe he’s doing so for Magnussen now -- helping him keep from getting his hands dirty with kidnappings and the like.”

“Maybe,” Mary says. “But I just don’t see the connection.”

Anderson shrugs. “It might not be either of them. We’ll keep looking.”

* * *

The problem is, she’s out of time. She’s eight months pregnant and can’t wait any longer for tenuous conspiracy theories. She’s going to have to act soon to take Magnussen out and then hope she can locate his secret partner afterward, without them inflicting too much intervening damage.

She’s deciding the best venue to shoot Magnussen -- actually shoot him, this time -- when Sherlock shows up at her door.

“You knocked,” is all she can think to say. “You never used to knock.”

“Yes, well,” he says, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet and giving a quarter of a smile, “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” It’s been months. She feels glad to see him, and sad, and wary, and angry, and jealous. Mostly sad, though. Has he come to fetch the last of John’s things? To tell her John is officially ending it? 

“Mary,” he says, “come to my family’s house for Christmas.”

She stares at him. “Sorry?” Christmas is next week, but surely she’s misunderstood.

“Christmas,” he repeats, drawing the word out and enunciating, “And Boxing Day. Join us.”

She frowns. “Why?”

He looks at her a long moment, then looks down at her abdomen. “There are things that need resolving.”

She wraps her arms protectively around her belly, fearing what resolving might imply. “Does John want --”

Sherlock cuts her off. “We’ll see you there. Dinner’s at five. Don’t be late!” He smiles and turns away, his coat swirling out behind him. 

She stares after him. “But I’m spending Christmas with the vets,” she says to his receding figure.

* * *

What does Sherlock intend? What does John intend? 

Sherlock wouldn’t be so cruel as to invite her to a family holiday just so John can officially break up with her -- would he? So they can have a custody battle over Christmas dinner? Surely not. Does that mean that there’s hope -- at least of forgiveness, if not necessarily repairing things further?

Sherlock’s often unkind, though, without meaning to be. And he’s not as good at predicting John as he thinks. Besides which, he frequently seems to draw up plans that maximize drama.

If she’s wrong, she’ll have to watch the two of them being happy together from the outside. In front of Sherlock’s family. She’ll have to keep up appearances, be outwardly cheerful. 

And what exactly has Sherlock told his parents, anyway? Are they aware that John’s been living with Sherlock? 

The entire thing sounds ill-conceived and potentially heart-wrenching. It would be far safer to make John come here and finally have it out on her own territory.

She calls the the PTSD clinic and tells them she won’t make it for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Amy P., Lisa E., and ShinySherlock for the beta feedback.


	18. Resolve this uncertainty

Mrs. Holmes is terrifying.

She picks Mary up at the train station, greeting her with a hug and opening the car door for her. “Look at you,” she says, clucking delightedly over Mary’s stomach. “When’s the due date?”

“January 15th.” Mary wonders how this gracious, bustling, seemingly ordinary woman ended up mother to such changeling boys.

“Ah, lovely! You must be so ready for it. The due date is very approximate, though, you know. My first one was two weeks late -- and then the second one was a day early. That’s Sherlock for you, rushing in headlong while Mike proceeds with more caution.” 

“Mike?” Mary echoes in mild shock. Is that what Mycroft’s friends and family call him? The possibility never occurred to her. 

“Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft. Have you two not met yet?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.” 

“Well, you will soon enough -- the boys are already settling in,” she tells Mary with a fond smile. “Sherlock wanted to come fetch you himself, you know, but he’s still weak yet, even if he doesn’t think so. And they just came from a difficult case -- well, you know that, of course, what am I thinking -- so all the more reason he should be resting. I told them both to stay put while I came to meet you. Insisted on it.” 

That’s when she moves from sweet to terrifying. She tells Mary several times that if she ever discovers who shot Sherlock, that person will suffer some very creatively unpleasant consequences. Mary utterly believes her. Mary nods firm agreement and offers to help hunt the villain down. 

Mrs. Holmes switches topics and pats her on the leg as they near the house. “I’m so very glad to finally meet you, my dear. Sherlock talks about you and John all the time. Well, John more so, of course -- they’ve been friends a long time, you know -- but you as well, absolutely. We’re so pleased John has found you.” 

Mrs. Holmes has no idea about the separation, then. No idea that John’s been with Sherlock instead and hasn’t spoken to her in months. She should have known that Sherlock would opt for complete lack of communication. 

“I was worried for Sherlock when he told me about you at first,” Mrs. Holmes continues. “He’s always had a hard time making friends; John’s a rare one. And you know how it is, when people get married and drift apart from old friends -- I thought John might do that. It would have broken Sherlock’s heart to lose John. You just can’t imagine. So I have to thank you for welcoming Sherlock into both your lives. And you and John should consider yourselves part of our family -- I want you to know that.” 

Mary nods as if each word in the speech wasn’t a stab in the gut. As if she weren’t the shooter that Mrs. Holmes threatened to roast like a Christmas ham. “Thank you so much,” she says. “We love your son, and we’re so glad to be here.” 

They smile at each other. Mary thinks to herself that this whole thing is a terrible idea and that she wants to go home.

* * *

Inside the house, Mary is introduced to Mycroft Holmes.

“Mikey, this is Mary; Mary, Mike.” Mycroft rolls his eyes, and Mary tries not to giggle.

“Mother, please,” Mycroft says through gritted teeth, standing and extending his hand, “it’s Mycroft.”

“Oh -- ” Mrs. Holmes ignores him and throws up her hands “-- your father forgot to peel the potatoes! Dinner is going to be late.” 

Mycroft sighs. “Mycroft Holmes. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Watson.”

Mary shakes his hand. “Mary, please. And likewise,” she says with the polite smile she wears when meeting someone who’s been preceded by unsavory rumors. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Don’t believe everything my brother says. He is unfortunately prone to exaggeration.”

“Mikey, don’t pick fights with Sherlock when he’s not even here to defend himself.” Mrs. Holmes emerges from the pantry with her arms full of an enormous sack of potatoes. “Where’s your father? I’m not sure we have enough potatoes for everyone. I might need him to run out for more.”

“The shops are closed on Christmas,” Mycroft observes, “but it appears you have at least eight potatoes for each person who will be in attendance. I do not think you will run out.”

“Well, Sherlock brought more friends than I was expecting -- oh, not you, dear,” she pats Mary on the arm, “he brought some friend named Ben, or Bill -- something Wiggins -- that I’ve never even heard of. Not the cleanest sort either. Who knows if more will be showing up?” Mary frowns at the revelation that Wiggins is here -- does Sherlock really think she needs a minder, even now?

“I believe every person has already arrived whom Sherlock might call a friend under the very loosest of definitions,” Mycroft says acidly. Mary can think of several others, but doesn’t correct him. 

“Be nice to your little brother! You’re the older one; you should behave. Though I don’t know why I expect that, after all these years,” Mrs. Holmes adds with a sigh. “Where is he, anyway? Shouldn’t he and John be helping Mary with her bags?”

“He and his guests are with Father,” Mycroft answers. “Examining an ant hill, I believe. You know how Sherlock is about social insects.”

“Oh, that rotten man! I told him he has to let Sherlock rest. And to deal with the potatoes. Does he ever listen?”

“I don’t believe Sherlock is at risk of relapse from a walk across the field.”

“I swear, nobody watches out for my boys except me.”

Mycroft closes his eyes a long moment and clamps his lips over whatever retort he was about to spout. He then says, “Mary, in the absence of my brother and your husband, may I help you with your luggage?”

They retrieve her overnight bag from the car and walk -- or waddle, in Mary’s case; she keeps expecting to get used to her new gait, but it just keeps getting more ridiculous -- toward the guest rooms. She talks politely but disinterestedly with him about his job as a public servant, and how she met John through work. 

They find that John has already claimed one of the guest rooms. He’s not sleeping in Sherlock’s room, somewhat to her surprise -- though she supposes that if Sherlock hasn’t told his parents anything, that would be awkward to explain. Wiggins has claimed another guest room. And, alarmingly, that’s all the bedrooms that aren’t already occupied by Holmeses.

Mycroft shoots Mary a brief glance as he puts her belongings in the same room as John’s. (That’s going to be awkward, later, but she doesn’t have any alternate proposals for where she should sleep.) He pauses and says, circumspectly, “I’m surprised you decided to join us for Christmas. It seems like it could be a difficult trip.” He glances at John’s bags as he says it but also adds, for the benefit of anyone possibly listening, “Or so I have heard about late pregnancy.”

She chooses her words carefully as well. “Yes. But Sherlock told me I wouldn’t want to miss this gathering.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Ah, I see. I hope it lives up to his prediction.”

“I do, too.”

She risks a quick, indirect inquiry about Magnussen. “I saw in the paper that Lady Smallwood’s husband committed suicide.” This worries her; it’s the first sign she’s seen of him resuming his activities in London since she’s been officially off the case.

Mycroft frowns at her warningly. “Oh?” he says, with polite disinterest. “Not my area of government, I’m afraid.” 

She hears John’s voice, then, in the kitchen -- along with others, but oh, God, it’s John. She’s missed him so much. So very, very much. She wants to see him, and she also wants to smack him for making her see him first here. She feels a simultaneous impulse to stay away, in case seeing him brings about the official end of their relationship more quickly.

There’s only one way to resolve the uncertainty, though. She heads toward the kitchen, composing herself; tries to remind herself that they saw each other recently, just before Sherlock and John left on their case, as far as everyone knows. 

In front of Sherlock’s family, John manages to greet her with a hug that plausibly only looks so awkward due to her unwieldy shape. Sherlock gives her a more genuine hug and peck on the cheek, and then he’s launching into a recounting of their most recent case. 

Sherlock’s in prime showing off mode, nearly dancing around the room as he tells the story. John watches Sherlock and interjects, “Fantastic,” periodically, as if he hadn’t been along on the case. He studiously avoids catching Mary’s eye.

Mary tries to listen to Sherlock -- loves seeing him in happy deduction mode, has missed it -- but she can’t stop watching John. Once Sherlock has finished telling the tale -- and been mocked by Mycroft for an incorrect deduction along the way, and scolded by his mother for taking unnecessary risks when he should be healing, and observed with a quiet pride by his father -- he also turns to face John. “And now,” he says, “I think it’s time for the Watsons to have a chat before dinner.”

All the attention turns toward the two of them, and Mary frowns. Why does Sherlock always have to put such direct pressure on them? John is always apt to balk in such situations.

Sure enough, John purses his lips, shakes his head, and says, barely audibly, “Nope. Not today.” Then he clears his throat and says with false cheerfulness, “Right, sorry -- I think I got some ants on me. I’m going to go shower.” He stalks off to their -- his? -- room. 

Mary flashes an equally false smile, but it probably looks a lot more genuine; she’s far better at lying than John. “I’m just going to go see if he needs anything.” She’s not going to spend the whole holiday waiting for John to decide whether it’s finally the day to talk to her and causing general family awkwardness in the meantime. If they’re going to talk here, might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. 

When she reaches the room, though, she finds he’s locked the door. She can’t even fetch the book she brought with her. And she has no desire to spend more time with any of the others while she’s still so keyed up about how things will go with John. With a sigh, she gives up and goes to peruse the Holmes’s bookshelves.

* * *

Sitting has become a series of events, for her -- a careful lowering of her body, a moving of pillows, a shifting and settling of her belly -- acknowledged by a shifting and kicking inside -- a straightening of her back. Once she has finally finished the process of sitting in an armchair in the sitting room, she intends to remain there as long as possible -- or at least until she needs to pee.

So when she thinks wistfully how she should have fetched a cuppa first, it’s too late. She gives up on the thought and starts paging through _The Dynamics of Combustion_ , a book that appears to have been written by Mrs. Holmes.

It’s the perfect reading material, given that she can’t focus on it at all; she couldn’t make heads or tails of it even if her attention weren’t diverted by the situation with John. The equations and the pseudo-English explanations of them could as well be encrypted for all that she can understand them. She’s terribly impressed.

She looks up as Mr. Holmes comes in with wood for the fire, and she smiles. He’s such an adorable old man in his neat shirt and cardigan. She wonders if John will look like this when he’s older -- probably sans bowtie. She wonders too, which of his parents Sherlock will most resemble when he’s this age. Her smile fades as she wonders whether she’ll be able to watch them grow old.

Mrs. Holmes follows, carrying a mug. “Ah, Mary, there you are.” Mary smiles and accepts the mug, sipping from it. Sweeter than she normally takes hers, but good, nonetheless. 

“Cup of tea,” Mrs. Holmes continues. “Now, if Father starts making little humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it.”

Mary giggles, and Mrs. Holmes chuckles along. Mr. Holmes smiles at them. The two of them are just the perfect couple. Then Mary, realizing the book still in her hands, holds it up and asks, “Did _you_ write this?”

She scoffs. “Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn’t read that! Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!”

Mary’s considers how best to respond to the trivializing of the entire field of mathematics and Mrs. Holmes’ own contributions to it, but Mrs. Holmes has already turned toward her husband to scold him yet again -- “Now, no humming, you!” -- inoffensive though the habit seems to Mary. (She wonders, if she and John and Sherlock were able to grow old together, which of their habits would grate the most on the others.) Then she bustles back out.

After she leaves, Mr. Holmes speaks. “Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius.”

“She was a mathematician?”

“Gave it all up for children.” She takes a sip from her mug and tries to smile, hoping that Sherlock's parents don't expect the same of all women. But then again, what does it matter? What does it matter what Sherlock's parents think of her at all? Why is she here?

“I could never bear to argue with her,” he continues. “I'm something of a moron myself.” She doesn't believe that, not for a moment. But she knows how it can feel to compare oneself to great brilliance. “But she's--” he glances toward the door, then turns back and leans toward her as if sharing a secret, “--unbelievably hot!”

Mary giggles. This man is incredibly winning. Also like John, when he's trying to be. “Oh my God,” she says with a smile. “You're the sane one, aren't you?” Relative to his wife, anyway. Possibly, in the way that John is to Sherlock, he's not actually sane compared to other people.

Mr. Holmes raises his eyebrows and says with a twinkle, “Aren't you?”

She tries to keep smiling, but lowers her eyes. Whoever the sane one is among the three of them, if there is one, she doubts it's her. She takes another sip of her tea.

She's saved from having to come up with a response by the door opening again. Much to her surprise, it's John who enters. He says, “Oh.”

She looks down at her book, opening to a different page than the one she was last on (or maybe the same; she can't tell) and flips through, waiting for him to leave, and thinking how she'll explain the awkwardness once he does.

John makes the awkwardness worse first. “Sorry, I-I just, er...” She doesn't look at him.

Mr. Holmes says, “Oh, er, do you two need a moment?”

To her shock, John says, “If you don't mind.”

Oh fuck. Thank God. Whatever is happening, it's happening now. At last.

She shakes her head slightly at Mr. Holmes when he glances inquiringly at her. Mr. Holmes departs, clearly confused, but happy to “go see if he can help with... something or another.”

She takes a deep breath, holds it.

Their baby kicks.

She lets it out.

Whatever will happen, will happen. She and her daughter will be all right, whatever that is.

She looks up at John as crosses to the fire, then faces her. He's not ready to speak yet. She looks back down, wondering if he will decide to postpone again.

“So, are you okay?” He finally asks her.

It's such an absurdly normal thing to ask. As if it hadn't been six months since they last spoke. As if he hadn't told her he didn't want to see her face. As if okay is a thing she could possibly be.

“Oh, are we doing this conversation today? It really is Christmas.” She half regrets the words as they leave her mouth. But even if John has every right to be angry at her, she's also angry at him, still, for leaving this until now.

He reaches into his pocket and removes the A.G.R.A. drive.

“Now?” He nods, shows her the side with the letters, just so she's sure what it is. Her heart leaps and sinks all at once. Leaps because she'd given up hope that he'd ever read it. But sinks because --

“Seriously?” she asks. “Months of silence, and we're going to do this now?” What is John doing? Bringing the drive to the same house as Mycroft? Mycroft mustn't get hold of it, mustn't know that she replaced the flash drive he originally gave her. John should know that if he’s read the drive.

Oh.

He hasn't read the drive.

If he had, he would have just said so, and he never would have brought it here.

Oh fuck.

So... what exactly are they doing now? Can he possibly forgive her, if he hasn’t even seen its contents?

“So, have you read it?” she asks, just to be sure. 

“W-would you come here a moment?”

She shakes her head. She's not getting herself and the baby out of this damn chair again just to hear bad news on her feet. She'd rather stay seated. “No. Tell me. Have you?”

John sounds exasperated. “Just--” but he pauses, calms himself. “Come here.” That's a good sign, isn't it? That he calmed himself? Or is it just that he wants to have a calm and reasoned tone as they discuss the divorce? Why are they doing this here?

She grimaces, then acquiesces and slowly starts the process of standing up, holding her belly as she does. John tries to help, but she waves him off. He doesn't get to help her.

She winces, at the pains in her hips, her groin, the pressure on her bladder. He has no idea. Or only a theoretical one. He wasn't there for this, for the changes, for their daughter growing inside her. And no matter what he says now, no matter what they decide, he can't change that.

She walks over to the fireplace. To him. They haven't been alone like this, close like this, in so long. It's an overwhelming thing. She looks away to give them both a little more space.

John speaks, finally. Whispers, almost. “I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you,” he tells her.

_I should hope so, after six months,_ she doesn't say aloud. He breathes deeply, and she looks up, catching his eyes. “These are prepared words, Mary.” All right. She's ready. But he's not, and he looks away this time. “I've chosen these words with care.”

“Okay.” This is so odd. What's he doing? Is he about to tell her that he’s actually read it after all? Surely not.

He fidgets with the flash drive, saying nothing. Finally, after several geological eras come and depart, he looks up and meets her eyes. “The problems of your past are your business. The problems of you future … are my privilege.”

She feels the tears welling, and she struggles to hold herself together, but he's not done. “It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know.”

He's an idiot, a loyal stubborn fucking idiot who refuses to listen when she tells him something and makes up his mind based on feelings rather than data. And she loves him for it. She watches as he throws the drive into the fire – idiot – and makes a mental note to dispose of it. Later. 

“No,” John says, turning back to her – in case she'd missed the obvious, “I didn't read it.”

She feels the tears running down her cheeks, and she says, still marveling at this man before her, “You don't even know my name.”

“Is 'Mary Watson' good enough for you?” he asks.

“Yes,” she chokes out through the tears. “Oh my God, yes.” It can take him half a year to speak, but he's not bad at putting words together once he does. 

“Then it's good enough for me, too.” He smiles.

“Oh!” She reaches for him right as he reaches for her. And it's strange and awkward with the whole of her belly – and their child – between them and just lovely. They hug fiercely around – no, including – the new addition. There's only one person missing to make this scene complete. She wonders where Sherlock is right now. 

“All this does not mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you,” John informs her.

She sniffs. “I know, I know.” She's going to still be a bit miffed with him as well, she's fairly certain. And she’s still has so many questions -- starting with, _why here? why now?_ \-- but they can all wait. 

“I am _very_ pissed off, and it _will_ come out now and then,” he continues.

“I know, I know, I know.” She repeats it over and over. _I know. You may choose not to know about me. But I know you. I know your anger and how it comes out. I know your loyalty and your love and your understated ways of showing them. I know how very fortunate I am to have all of that, all of you back. I know._

John pulls back a bit, looks her in the eyes. “You can mow the sodding lawn from now on.”

“I do mow the lawn,” she points out mildly.

“No, I do it loads,” he argues, his eyes twinkling. Oh God, that twinkle. It's been a long time.

“You really don't.”

“I choose the baby's name,” John proposes.

“Not a chance.” Not after all she and the baby have been through, with John gone. 

“Okay,” he says, and he hugs her again. She never wants him to stop, never wants to stop hugging him back.

“So you realize that, er, Sherlock got us out here to see his mum and dad for a reason?” she asks him.

She feels John's smile against her cheek. “His lovely mum and dad. A fine example of married life, I get that.”

That's not what she had in mind. She had in mind to say that he invited them both because they're family, and Sherlock wanted to introduce them to his folks and have the whole family together for the holidays. Sherlock, who loudly disavows sentiment but can't resist angsty violin playing or cozy Christmas forgiveness, who loves his family even if he'd never say so. Who loves John. Who loves them. Who invited them both into this world that nobody ever sees. 

She opens her mouth to say so, but then frowns, a wave of dizziness and nausea catching her. What? This can't be good. Is the baby all right?

“That is the thing with Sherlock,” John continues, oblivious. “It's always the unexpected.”

As she slumps against John, she realizes. There's one person who's out of place in her story. One who doesn't fit. Bill Wiggins. What’s he doing here? He’s not part of the family. Did he persuade Sherlock to bring him along, with some sinister ulterior motive? Has he poisoned her? She opens her mouth to try to tell John to watch Wiggins, but no words come out, just a moan. Everything swims before her eyes. The baby… is the baby okay… is... the ba...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lisa E., ShinySherlock, and Amy P. once again for their feedback. And once again to Ariane DeVere for her [HLV transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html).


	19. Not the only crazy one

She wakes and sees Wiggins and shouts in alarm. 

That’s what she intends to do, at least; what comes out is a grunt.

She doesn’t end up trying again, because while she’s coming to, she realizes that Wiggins didn’t poison her, doesn’t have any dastardly scheme. At least, nothing more dastardly than listening to Sherlock.

She realizes this primarily because Wiggins won’t shut up once her eyelids flutter open. “D’you want some water? You should prob’ly have some water. You can’t tell me yet whether you want it, ‘course. But I think you should. No more tea, though, the tea is drugged. I thought just the punch, thought the tea wouldn’t cover the taste, but _‘e_ said people don’t notice a thing. Gave me a lecture about the setting of expectations and the science of disguise. I don’t think he was just talking about tea, at that point. ‘E likes to show off. And ‘e’s a bit lonely, yeah? Didn’t expect ‘im to have such normal parents, though, I must say.” 

She’s only half listening, if that. The baby. How’s the baby? Sherlock planned this; he had her drugged for some reason. He wouldn’t hurt the baby, would he? No, he wouldn’t; she’s utterly certain. Not on purpose. But possibly by accident. What the fuck is he doing? “Turns out ‘e was right about the tea,” Wiggins is still blathering. “You all drank it just fine. ‘E’s usually right. Not always, but usually. ‘T’s a bit annoying, don’t you think? -- You want some water? No, you still can’t tell me, I know. I’ll go get water.”

He does. As he holds the glass up to her lips, he says, “Nice to have someone awake again. You woke first, because I had to dose you lighter to be safe -- and there’s two of you.” She grunts. “Oh, the baby’s fine. Promise. ‘E checked my calculations and my chemistry five times. When I grumbled about it, ‘e grabbed my shoulders like a vise, and ‘e told me that nothing was more important than making sure you were both all right, certainly not worrying about slights to my ‘abundant but not entirely deserved pride.’” He does a passable, if exaggerated rendition of Sherlock as he rubs his shoulder. “More water?”

Wiggins continues chatting at her while she slowly regains motor functions -- and feels her daughter kicking reassuringly. She tries to ask where John and Sherlock are, but it comes out softly and slowly, and he just talks over her. By the time she’s sitting up and starting to drink her own water and about to make another attempt, Mycroft comes thundering unsteadily into the room like a drunken giraffe.

“What has he done?” he asks, glowering at Wiggins and slurring his words. “What has my brother done?” 

“I don’t know,” Wiggins says. “He didn’t tell me. Just told me I couldn’t come in the helicopter. Took his other friend, though,” he adds sourly.

Mycroft looks murderous. Then he wobbles and nearly falls, catching himself on the door. Muttering to himself, he reaches into his waistcoat and removes something small, which he places in his mouth. A moment later, he’s no longer wobbling. He pulls out his phone and places a call. “Contingency seventy one,” he says, still watching Wiggins, who is quiet and subdued beneath his stare.

Mycroft hangs up. He says quietly to Wiggins, “I trust that my brother would not have had you inflict any permanent damage upon our parents. But if anything has happened to them, I will hold you accountable as well as him.” 

“‘E said you’d say that,” Wiggins says. “Said to tell you it was only a quarter as risky as the time he blew up the kitchen.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Oh, excellent.” But he looks slightly mollified. Then turns to Mary. “Are you all right?” 

She nods, pleased that she can now control her head reasonably well. Mycroft is way ahead of her, though. “Pill?” She asks, eyebrows raised. He clearly took something that sped his metabolism of the drug, and she wants some. Badly.

Mycroft shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Too dangerous, in your current condition.” 

She sighs but nods. “Where are they?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She tries to think it through, but it’s as if she has molasses running through her brain instead of blood. Where… Why would they go off on their own? Why now? Why did Sherlock make John tell her at this time? He had the whole thing dramatically staged, as he always does, so he must have intended to give them a grand Christmas gift. Some fantastic, dramatic gesture, post-reconciliation.

Magnussen. The blackmail material still allegedly hanging over her head. And Sherlock and John still don’t know the truth -- that she’s not truly at risk, never has been; that the story is all bait and she’s protected by the British government; that the last thing they should do is approach Magnussen -- because John never read the damn A.G.R.A. drive.

She groans. “They went after him again. Those bloody idiots.”

Mycroft looks grim. She hears a helicopter approaching in the distance. “Take care of our parents when they wake, would you?” She nods. He shoots Wiggins a last annoyed glance. “And _you_ should learn to keep better company than my brother, in the future.”

“Why?” Wiggins looks interested. “You offering me superior employment opportunities?”

Mycroft doesn’t deign to answer, just turns and goes out to the helicopter landing on the lawn.

It’s the last she sees of either of the Holmes brothers for days.

* * *

An hour or so later, after she and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes are fully recovered --and after she's retrieved the blackened and slightly deformed A.G.R.A. drive from the fireplace -- they sit together at the kitchen table. They're all nursing mugs of water, everyone having lost their appetite for tea or punch. They’re also all exceedingly awkward toward Wiggins, and Wiggins is exceedingly awkward back, but it doesn’t seem to occur to him to leave. (And nobody wants to ask, because after all it is Christmas, and he is a guest -- albeit a rather rude and illicitly-drugging-his-hosts guest -- and he was, after all, acting under the direction of Sherlock.) So they sit, and they sip, and they talk only intermittently. 

“I do wish Sherlock had told us his plans -- or at least when they’d be back,” Mrs. Holmes breaks the silence to fret. “I don’t know when to have dinner ready.” 

Wiggins says, “I’m ‘ungry now.” Everyone ignores him.

A minute later, Mr. Holmes breaks off quietly humming to suggest, “I wouldn’t mind some dinner soon. Takes a surprising amount out of you, being unconscious for a few hours, eh?” He smiles at Mary, eyes crinkling.

Mary smiles back, but mostly she worries. It’s been too long without word from John or Sherlock or Mycroft. Now that she’s sure the Holmes parents are okay, she’s going to have to go after them. 

Mrs. Holmes is pondering aloud, “The last time he drugged us, he was back by eight, and that time Mikey didn’t even go after him,” when Mary’s phone buzzes:

_`Need you. Come at once. Please.`_ It’s followed by coordinates.

For months, she hoped and wished for a text from John. It’s not as happy an occasion as she’d expected.

She gives Mr. and Mrs. Holmes hurried hugs goodbye and promises to send news as soon as she knows what’s happened. She borrows the car that John and Sherlock arrived in (an opportunity to dust off her hot-wiring skills that she would enjoy if she weren’t so worried by the text) and she drives to meet John at an entirely unsafe speed.

* * *

“Tell me again,” she says. “You’re sure Mycroft said he would ‘fight for the Eastern European option?’”

“Yeah. What do you think that means?” John asks, listlessly. They’re at 221B, by unspoken agreement. The flat is empty; Mrs. Hudson, like most of the neighborhood, is away for Christmas. John’s sitting in his armchair, with a drink, staring at Sherlock’s empty seat. She wants to go to him, to comfort him. But it’s been so long. Everything between them is still so tenuous and unsettled. Instead, she leans against the desk, looking out the window every time the silence and the worry and the strangeness of being back together starts to overwhelm her. 

“I think it means exile,” she says. That would be the most likely arrangement Mycroft could make for such a high profile murder. A murder in her name. One she’d intended to do herself, in a manner that would be hard to connect back to her and could be easily covered up. Sherlock’s blown that plan to hell, though (it’s not been on the news yet how Magnussen died, but Mycroft can’t keep it a secret forever). _Oh, Sherlock. You shouldn’t have._

“Somewhere safe?” John asks.

“No. Almost certainly not.”

John purses his lips. “I suppose not. He wouldn’t go for that anyway.” Then, “He’s going to disappear again, isn’t he.” 

“He might try,” she says, watching John clench his drink, white-knuckled. _Goddammit, Sherlock. You have to learn to stop doing this to John._ “But we won’t let him succeed.”

John’s eyes shoot up from under his furrowed brow, catching her gaze. “You mean --”

“I mean we sure as hell are not going to let him go off to Eastern Europe -- or anywhere else -- alone. Even if the berk is planning to disappear and leave us to our happy ending. We’ll go with him.”

John sags with relief. “Oh, God. I didn’t think you would want -- I -- thank you.”

She smiles at him. “Well, it wouldn’t be a happy ending without him.”

He smiles back. He sets down his drink, gets up out of the chair, and walks over to her. “No, it really wouldn’t.” He kisses her then, soft, sweet, sorely missed. Then he puts a hand on her belly. “You won’t be able to travel for a while, though.”

She scowls. “John Watson, if you think I’m going to let you run off without me to join Sherlock on an exciting Eastern European adventure, you have another think coming.” She puts a hand on her belly, too, next to his. “We’ll wait until she’s born.”

“She?” John asks with raised eyebrows. When Mary nods, he grins and squeezes her hand with excitement. His joy is infectious, and for a long moment they just stand there, grinning at each other, thinking about their daughter.

Then John sobers, frowning. “Sherlock could have disappeared already by then, though.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Yes, but I’ve been trained as a spy, remember? C.I.A.?” Sherlock deduced that bit about her past in John’s presence; it’s safe to bring up. “We’ll solve the mystery of where he’s gone quick enough. You can write it up in the blog: Baby’s First Case.”

John laughs, and she laughs, and their daughter kicks and punches with excitement. “You’re amazing,” John says softly.

“True,” she says with a smile, and kisses him again.

He kisses back, hungrily, desperately. And then he’s starting to unbutton her shirt, and the desk she’s leaning against is far too uncomfortable for this. She pushes him gently toward the sofa. And then they’re there, and oh God, she’s missed this, she’s missed him, she’s missed his body. 

She sits on the sofa, reclining against a pile of cushions, and he slowly removes her clothing, exploring every bit of her altered body admiringly. He watches her face as he gently touches her swollen breasts and her enormous abdomen, as he finds all the places that are pleasing to have touched. His breathing is ragged by the time he slides down to kneel between her legs, and she finds her eyes welling even as her heart races; it is so, so good to be sharing herself again, sharing this with him. To know that they both can still find pleasure in her body, different though it is now.

He licks her, and she moans. He moves slowly, gently, at first, just as she likes it, then faster, and oh, that’s so good. Startlingly quickly, she’s stiffening, spasming, shouting. He lets her buck up against his face but keeps going -- easing off a bit as her clit grows more sensitive. (God, she wishes she could see his face; he always looks drugged on her scent and taste when he’s going down on her, and it’s the hottest thing ever. But there’s no way over her belly. She reaches down and grabs his hand and squeezes.) Her second orgasm is slower, a wave slowly building, then crashing over her in a sudden spreading warmth. 

Then her muscles inside are tightening and spasming and her belly is going taut. John, sits up and says, “What’s --” with some concern.

“Braxton Hicks contraction,” she says.

“Oh! Right,” he says, running his hands along her tight skin until it loosens again. Then he moves up onto the sofa beside her, smiling at her in wonder. 

“So, Doctor,” she says with a grin, eyeing the tent in his trousers. “Did you want to continue the examination from the inside?”

“Oh, God. Can I --?” 

“Yes. Please -- as long as you’ll help me up. I’m a bit stuck.” He jumps up and helps her out of her stuck-turtle reclined position, then strips off his own clothes with comical speed. Then there’s shifting and propping up with pillows and trying positions, and shifting and trying again. Finally, they succeed at him entering her from behind while he stands and she leans against the back of the sofa. It’s good, very good. It’s also strange; she can’t stop being aware of the changes -- most notably, her huge, pendulous belly and the restless baby inside. And the belly gets in the way of her usual habit of reaching between her legs when she’s in this position. But the baby will soon be interfering with sex much more effectively, and she’s not going to miss out on this window of opportunity before the birth, or this chance to reconnect with John in every way possible.

John thrusts into her slowly, deeply, his hands on her hips. It takes a while to find a satisfying angle and rhythm, with her whole body so changed. But they do, and she moans her encouragement as he brushes her G-spot. He picks up the pace and comes inside her with a strangled half-grunt, half-shout. It’s lovely. They curl up together after, naked and snuggling on the sofa. She’s missed this closeness. Grieved over it. It’s a miracle to be back here once more.

She runs her hands across his body, so comfortingly the same while hers is so different. He murmurs with delight as the baby kicks. Eventually, he sighs, chest heaving beneath her head. “We’re a bit of a sticky mess, aren’t we?”

She laughs. “A bit, yeah. I’m too tired to clean up, though.”

He chuckles, stroking her shoulder gently. “Not sure why we didn’t use my bed. No, wait, I do -- it’s all the way upstairs. I couldn’t wait.”

She freezes, puzzled. “You mean, your _old_ bed?”

His fingers still against her shoulder. Then, “I mean my bed,” he says, quietly.

“Your bed where you’ve been sleeping?”

“That’s the one,” he says. He smiles just a bit; she can feel it against the top of her head.

“And Sherlock was sleeping downstairs?”

“When he slept, yeah.”

She sits up laboriously and looks at him. “I thought you two were --”

He half shrugs. “You and the rest of the world, usually.”

“But you kissed him,” she says, her voice rising.

He draws back, gives her a sharp stare. “When?”

“In the hospital,” she says, aware that she’s shown her hand.

He looks angry. “Have you been spying on us this whole time?”

“No,” she says. “Just for a little while. After you told me I couldn’t visit him. I was worried about him.”

“So you sneaked a camera into the hospital room?” he asks, voice still hard.

“It was already there. I just accessed it.”

Anger and incredulity war with amusement on his face; the battle resolves into a grin. “You’re a bit scary, you know that?”

She’s not ready to move on, though. “You kissed him.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I did.”

“And then you _didn’t_ sleep with him?” She saw him go into Sherlock’s room. But admitting she spied on them at 221B comes dangerously close to admitting she has access to Mycroft’s network of cameras specifically. And since John disposed of the A.G.R.A. drive, she’s not yet sure if or how to reveal that she’s working with the elder Holmes. Especially as revealing that Magnussen wasn’t really a danger to her casts Sherlock’s shooting him in a somewhat different light.

“No. I -- we just kissed.”

“Why?” she demands.

“Hang on, are you -- are you angry at me because I _haven’t_ been sleeping with Sherlock?”

What? That’s a stupid question. “No.” She notices then that her chest is tight, her voice strained. She’s shaking. “Yes,” she revises.

“Why?”

“I just am,” she snaps. She shakes her head, angry at herself now. She takes a few deep breaths, considering. Finally, she continues, “I think… I suppose I spent six months being jealous of the two of you. I was quite cross at you for having someone else while I was alone, and I was… I was roiling with envy over Sherlock having you.” 

John frowns. “So, you’re angry because you were jealous and didn’t need to be?”

“I -- yeah.” She finds herself uncoiling around the core of hurt inside her, a bit, as she admits it -- and as she wraps her head around the fact that John and Sherlock didn’t. Weren’t. Haven’t yet.

He scrubs his neck. “Well, glad I’m not the only crazy one in this relationship,” he says.

Her lips twitch. “Hardly.” 

He smiles at her just a bit, and she manages a sheepish smile back. “So, why on Earth _weren’t_ you at it like bunnies the whole time?” 

John shrugs. “I couldn’t.”

“The kiss didn’t do it for you?” she asks, gently teasing. 

He shakes his head and sighs. “No -- God, that kiss was. It was good. And we started to -- well. We kissed some more, later. But I couldn’t. I’m still a married man.”

“True. Though I did give you permission, once upon a time,” she points out.

“I know,” he says. “But I had to settle things with you, first. One way or the other. It felt like it would be cheating, otherwise. And even though I was angry with you, so angry, and I thought you might deserve that… it isn’t me,” he finishes, shaking his head.

“Oh,” she says, feeling a surge of warmth. It really isn’t him. Who would have thought she’d fall for such a traditionalist -- in certain aspects of life, anyway. She finds she doesn’t mind.

She’s still a bit confused, though. “So, you decided not to sleep with him until you fixed things with me, and then you didn’t talk to me for six months?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I couldn’t. I was…For a while, every time I thought of you, I was shaking. I felt ready to explode. I didn’t want to see you or talk to you. I was terrified of what I would do if I did.”

Avoidance is a suboptimal way of handling anger, but God knows she’s seen known plenty of people with worse ways of coping with stress and rage. She nods, accepting it and glad he managed to work through it eventually. “So, what did you two get up to, then?”

“A lot of distracting each other from things. I made him do his physical therapy -- which he loathed -- and I also helped find interesting cases that weren’t too strenuous. Ones he could work on while he recovered. And he was always looking for cases to distract me, as well.”

She nods. They’ve always been good at keeping each other happy through misdirection, from what she can tell. “Were you working at the clinic?”

John shakes his head. “I quit. Didn’t want to risk running into you. And it just didn’t feel important, after everything.”

She smiles to herself. Of course they both quit the clinic to avoid each other. It was always more a cover story than a vocation for both of them -- both of them pretending to be normal people satisfied with a dull day job. They’re both bloody good health professionals, but a clinic that’s 99% sore throats and hemorrhoids isn’t the right place for either of them to practice.

“So why’d you decide to fix things with me now?”

“I just… I had to fix things before you gave birth. I would talk about it with Ella during therapy, and I -- I couldn’t imagine not being there, watching our baby be born and holding her -- or him; I didn’t know at the time. I couldn’t imagine not sharing that with you. And we worked on my anger, Ella and I.

“Besides that, Sherlock gave me an ultimatum,” he admits. “Told me I had to decide something by Christmas, at the latest. I’d thought it was because of the baby, but --”

“Now it seems like it was because of his plan regarding Magnussen.”

“Yeah.”

She ponders. “Do you think Sherlock would have changed the plan at all, if you’d decided to divorce me instead?”

John purses his lips. “I don’t suppose he really imagined that I might.”

She studies him, notes that John didn’t say _he_ never imagined it. “So what exactly did you tell Sherlock? When you said you couldn’t sleep with him? Did you tell him you would once we were back together?”

John blinks. “I -- not exactly.”

“What did you say?”

“I said… I think I just said something like, ‘I can’t. I’m married.’”

“That’s it?”

“Maybe also, ‘I have to figure out what to do about Mary, first.’”

She sighs. “So you never said you wanted to be with him, even if you got back together with me?”

“No. We don’t -- we don’t really talk much.” She suppresses a laugh at that. “And I thought … surely he must have understood that. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

“Exactly. The same man who didn’t know he was your best friend.” John frowns an acknowledgment, and Mary continues. “So, I suppose his Christmas present to you was getting us back together, solving our remaining problems with Magnussen, and then nobly getting out of the way of our marriage.”

John blinks again. “Fuck. Yeah, I suppose that might be true.”

Mary sighs fondly. “You two are such idiots. So of course you didn’t tell him that I want the two of you to be together, either?”

“No,” John says. “We didn’t -- we really didn’t talk about you much at all. I just knew Sherlock was keeping tabs on you and the baby. I knew from what little he said that you were both well. That was all I could handle.”

Sherlock Holmes is really, really bad at emotions if he thought she was well. She’s glad, though. She doesn’t want John -- or Sherlock -- to know how bad things got.

“Yeah, we are well,” she says. “Our baby’s been amazing, so far. And also a fantastic pain in the arse.” And everywhere else.

He smiles. “A lot like both his parents, then.” She smiles back and nods. 

He sobers and continues. “I’m so sorry I missed… well. Everything.”

“It’s okay.” She squeezes his hand. “I mean, it’s not, actually -- but I’ve done loads of things that aren’t okay, too. I’m sorry.” 

He nods, squeezing her hand back. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No, you know what? No more sorry.”

She tilts her head, not understanding. “Sorry?” 

He snorts and they both start giggling. Afterward he says, “What I mean is -- I we’ve both made mistakes. But … well, I think we’re going to do better now. Yeah?” She nods agreement.

“So,” he continues, “can we wipe the slate clean? Start over?”

She sighs, knowing this means she’s never going to be able to tell him truth about herself -- her real career, her family, her childhood. But that was a given from the moment he threw the A.G.R.A. drive in the fire, she supposes. His ability to suddenly forgive and just walk away from the past, without wanting to know any details, is both maddening and charming. Most of all, it’s so very John Watson. And she’s missed having that in her life, so much. 

“Yeah. We can do that.” She leans in and kisses him. Oh, God, she’s missed him. 

She’s missed Sherlock, too -- the nutter. But no matter how hard he tries to get out of their lives, they aren’t going to let him go. And she feels quite ready to leave behind her dangerous job working for the British government, and take on whatever dangerous thing Sherlock is getting himself into, along with John and their daughter. The four of them taking on the world together -- in Eastern Europe or anywhere else -- sounds pretty excellent, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, we're getting very close to the end! I can't believe it! I'm going to make my (self-imposed) Christmas deadline. :) 
> 
> Thanks to ShinySherlock, Amy P., and Lisa E. for betaing.


	20. All the fun

John insists that they not tell Sherlock they’ll be joining him in exile. They have a number of days to debate it, as Sherlock remains under lock and key -- no visitors allowed -- while Mycroft negotiates his future.

Mary assumes John doesn’t want to give Sherlock false hope, and she spends a while trying to persuade John that they will, without a doubt, succeed in tracking Sherlock down. Finally, she realizes that’s not it. “John Hamish Watson,” she says, “are you trying to give Sherlock Holmes a taste of his own medicine? Make him think he’s saying goodbye forever, then waltz back into his life one day in the future?”

“No! I --” John purses his lips. “Yeah, all right. Maybe a bit. He better not be getting engaged -- again -- when we turn up, though,” he grumbles. 

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s not very nice.”

“Well, he won’t think we’re dead, at least,” John points out. “And we won’t keep him in suspense for too long. But I’d like to have a more specific plan before we tell him to expect us -- and for that, we’ll need to wait and see when you and the baby are ready to travel.” 

He grabs both her hands, looking at her seriously. “Also, just so you know -- our daughter comes first. If she needs anything -- if you need anything -- if you change your mind --”

She smiles and kisses his nose. “You’re sweet. But we’re not going to let Sherlock run off on his own and have all the fun without us.”

He smiles and looks relieved. “Still. Let’s leave it as a surprise, yeah?” She shrugs and acquiesces.

* * *

Watching the two men together on the tarmac is painful. She hugs Sherlock briefly and promises to take care of John, but although Sherlock takes more time to say goodbye to John, the two of them barely touch. There’s a ridiculous amount of awkwardness and long stares and things left unsaid -- she can tell even without being able to hear them; the two of them are champions at leaving things unsaid. 

Eventually, Sherlock extends his hand, proffering a handshake. Beside her, Mycroft sighs softly. “Oh, Sherlock.”  
“I know,” she mutters. Even John seems stunned by the formality, but eventually, he takes Sherlock’s hand. “They’re the worst at affection. I wish they would just --” she pauses, remembering awkwardly who she’s talking to.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Hmm.” He says, non-committally. Then, changing the subject, “You know, I could use someone with Eastern European expertise to watch over Sherlock. Someone with the rare capability of keeping up with him. I don’t suppose you’ll be coming back from your maternity leave for a while, but --”

She interrupts as she watches Sherlock climb the stairs to the plane. “Sorry, no. I think I’ll be leaving the service permanently, actually.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot higher. “Settling down? Who would have thought.” He sounds disappointed. And worried for his little brother. She fights a brief impulse to hug him.

“I may be able to help out with this mission in an unofficial capacity, though. John and I both might, after our daughter is born.”

Mycroft eyes her speculatively, but there’s no time to talk just now; her husband needs her. Mycroft gives her a nod and walks toward his car, and she joins John.

The plane is still visible in the sky, John still squeezing her hand painfully tight, when Mycroft gets back out of the car, saying, “...simply not possible.” John lets go of Mary’s hand and walks toward him. “What’s happened?” 

Mycroft, phone still to his ear, says, “Moriarty.” Then he gets back in the car, leaving them standing in confusion.

“But he’s dead,” Mary says. “I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty.”

“Absolutely,” John answers. “He blew his own brains out.” He sounds very certain for a man who has witnessed both Sherlock and Irene convincingly fake their own deaths.

“So how can he be back?”

John turns and looks at Sherlock’s plane, which has circled around and started returning. “Well, if he _is,_ he’d better wrap up warm. There’s an East Wind coming.”

Mary isn’t entirely sure what John means, but she’s too busy trying to think through Moriarty’s return to care. She wonders for a moment if all this is Mycroft’s doing -- a plausible reason to summon his little brother back from exile. But no, he was genuinely worried about Sherlock earlier when he was asking her aid.

“Is Moriarty really dead?” Mary asks Mycroft as he rejoins them, watching the plane approach.

“Unlike my brother, he truly did kill himself,” Mycroft answers. “After Ms. Adler, it became my policy to run a DNA test on all corpses to be certain.” He smiles humorlessly. "Someone else is using his image. But we will have to rely on my brother to determine who.”

* * *

She returns with Sherlock and John to 221B. Mycroft heads to his office to gather information, with a strict admonishment that Sherlock contact him before going anywhere. Mycroft posts men outside, ostensibly for their protection. But Mycroft has kept the Magnussen shooting out of the news so far, so they needn’t worry about being hounded by the press. Mary suspects the men are truly there because Sherlock is still a murderer and not allowed to wander free. 

On the TV, Moriarty’s face continues its crazy chant. Mary sits quietly, thinking and nibbling one of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought by to welcome Sherlock home.

“If it’s not Moriarty, who is it?” John asks. 

Sherlock, pacing around the flat, throws his arms wide. “Think, John! It’s someone who needs a distraction. A grand distraction.”

“Who? Who needs a distraction?”

Sherlock dons his manic grin. “I don’t know! Not yet!” he says, popping his ‘t’s. “But all we need do is await news of whatever is happening right now -- whatever it is they’re distracting us from.” He rubs his hands together. 

Moriarty disappears from the screen, abruptly. Moments later, a new broadcast begins. Rather than the expected breaking news report, Mary is surprised to see the Prime Minister is giving a press conference in front of 10 Downing St. Mary and John share a confused glance as Mary settles herself in front of the television in John’s armchair to watch. John stands beside her, a hand on her shoulder, and Sherlock pauses in his pacing to observe. 

“This is a grave moment for the nation,” the Prime Minister tells the press. “The terrorist, James Moriarty, has returned.” 

“He has?” John says skeptically.

“No,” Sherlock says firmly. 

“Moriarty has been in hiding since shortly after his high-profile attacks on three major UK institutions in the spring of 2012,” the Prime Minister continues. “But he has not been inactive. We’ve recently learned that he was behind the attempt to blow up Parliament last November.”

“What?” John asks. Sherlock hums interestedly -- almost excitedly -- and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. Mary can’t make sense of it yet and just watches.

“Moriarty is a terrorist of the highest threat level, and we take his return to London very seriously. In order to address this threat head-on, and to step up our protection of the people of the United Kingdom in this time of heightened threats abroad and at home, I will be advising Her Majesty on the formation of a Department of Counterterrorism. The new department will be working in close partnership with the Home Office to better protect our people. 

“As well as appointing a new Minister of Counterterrorism, I will also be asking the Lord Chancellor, the Home Secretary, and the Foreign Secretary to step down in favor of new appointees who are more suited to this urgent effort. I thank my colleagues for their understanding and their past service. Thank you.”

“Jesus,” John breathes. Mary puts a hand on his -- still resting atop her shoulder -- and squeezes. He’s not the only one who’s shocked; there’s a moment of stunned silence from the press corps before they start competing for the Prime Minister’s attention.

Mary only half-listens to the questions from the press, which are remarkably friendly considering the magnitude and unprecedented nature of the Prime Minister’s announcement. Her mind is whirling, trying to find some sensible interpretation of it all. 

“Is it Lord Moran?” John asks. When Mary looks at him, he says, “The Prime Minister said Moriarty was responsible for the bomb underneath Parliament -- but we know that it was Moran. Is he shifting the blame to Moriarty to gain a pardon?”

Sherlock, pacing again, doesn’t answer. So Mary does. “Could be… But this is far larger than pardoning Moran; this is about remaking much of the Cabinet. Why?”

John frowns. “I don’t know.”

Mary shakes her head. “I don’t, either. All we really know for sure is that the Moriarty broadcast was apparently intended to scare people rather than distract them.”

Sherlock pauses, frowning. “Perhaps both. Given that it’s obvious the Prime Minister was giving that statement under duress.”

“What?” John asks. “How can you tell?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obvious, John. His intonation indicated fear. The patterns of mud at the edges of his jacket -- still fresh -- showed he’s been in a recent struggle; he removed his outer coat after, but the signs are still there on his cuffs and collar. And he kept glancing to the same offscreen person for approval.”

“Someone who threatened him while everyone was distracted by Moriarty,” Mary muses. “But --”

“Hush,” Sherlock says, holding out a hand, watching the television again. 

John lets another inane press question go by before asking, “What is it?”

“That’s the fifth question asked by a reporter from CAM Global News,” Sherlock says. “The press conference is a sham; they’ve got the place packed with friendly reporters.”

“Why is CAM suddenly friendly toward the Prime Minister?” John asks. “That’s new.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, reaching for his coat. “You two, stay here -- monitor the news for other developments, and cover for me if Mycroft calls.”

John looks at him, startled. “Right. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to give an interview to CAM,” he grins, turning his collar up. “And see if I can turn up clues about their Prime Minister connection.” He turns to run up the stairs -- toward the rooftop, presumably to avoid Mycroft’s men.

“Sherlock!” John says. But he’s already gone. 

John monitors the television as pundits speculate about the Prime Minister’s remarks and Moriarty’s reappearance. Meanwhile Mary borrows his laptop to look for clues online as to what’s going on. Neither of them turn anything up by the time Sherlock appears on the screen a few hours later. “Up next: Exclusive interview!” The teaser ad promises over an old image of Sherlock in his famed hat. “Detective reveals shocking secrets!”

“What secrets?” John asks nervously.

“I don’t know,” Mary says, filled with a peculiar dread.

The interview intro starts, and CAM’s most gossipy interviewer, Nina Wells, appears on camera. “We’ll be back with more coverage of today’s events soon. But now we have an exclusive interview with the man James Moriarty previously framed and attempted to discredit -- Sherlock Holmes!” She smiles and turns toward the detective, seated next to her and still wearing his iconic Belstaff coat, even under the lights of the cameras.

“Mr. Holmes,” Nina begins, “Thank you so much for joining us -- we’re such big fans of yours!” She gives him a huge, insincere grin. “But we know you must be very busy getting to the bottom of Mr. Moriarty’s mysterious broadcast.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says with an equally large, equally fake smile. “But I always have time for my fans.” In 221B, John huffs a laugh.

“What can you tell us about Mr. Moriarty and what he’s up to?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, still smiling.

“Nothing?” Nina looks doubtful.

“I can’t say anything about a current investigation -- especially not one related to national security,” Sherlock says, raising his eyebrows significantly. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Right. Well,” the interviewer flounders a bit, “can you tell us anything about your past relationship with Mr. Moriarty?” When Sherlock says nothing, she adds, “It was a bit fraught, wasn’t it? He tried to discredit you, to frame you. Why did he hate you so much?”

“No, no. He didn’t hate me. Obvious.” Nina frowns at his dismissive tone. “If he’d hated me, I’d be dead. He was obsessed with me.”

Nina brightens. “Oh?” She asks archly. “And why was that?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m fascinating, apparently.” John snorts and Mary grins gleefully. Sherlock should do interviews more often; the interviewer’s discomfiture is great fun to watch.

Nina blinks several times and laughs. “Well! You certainly are, Mr. Holmes. The press was rather fascinated with you recently -- again! -- following some rather salacious tales told about you by Miss Janine Hawkins. Would you care to comment on those?” 

Much to Mary and John’s amazement -- Mary didn’t know John’s eyebrows could go that high -- Sherlock responds, “Happy to.” He confirms all of Janine’s outrageous tabloid stories, elaborating on Janine’s sexual prowess as he does. (Janine must be laughing with delight... Mary feels a sharp stab of regret and sadness that she can’t text her.)

“Well, that _is_ fascinating,” Nina says, looking like she can’t believe her luck. “But you and Ms. Hawkins unfortunately parted ways. Are you seeing anybody now?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not currently. Being a detective is generally a solitary pursuit. But I do have the good fortune of possessing one of the most excellent crime-solving partners anyone could hope for. My best friend,” he says it proudly, enunciating, “John Watson.” Mary and John share a smile.

Nina raises her eyebrows. “Yes. There used to be rumors about the two of you, as I recall. Rumors that you were... _more_ than friends.” She says it as if it would be the biggest scandal imaginable -- two close friends, in love. John heaves a resigned sigh, and Mary squeezes his hand again. “Care to address that?”

Sherlock smiles, unperturbed, and shakes his head. “Just rumors, I’m afraid. We were never involved, and he’s happily married now. To a woman I would like to spend a bit of time talking about, actually.” He looks straight into the camera, suddenly earnest, and Mary’s chest tightens.

“Not many people know it, but she’s a national hero. She’s worked as a British secret agent for many years to take down terrorists and keep our country safe, and she’s lived here in London these past few years, working undercover.” Mary can’t breathe. “On a case that would be of substantial interest to this particular network, actually,” Sherlock adds. She clenches the arms of her chair, but he doesn’t mention Magnussen and instead finishes, “But that’s classified, I’m afraid. Someone recently tried to besmirch her, though, and I won’t let that happen. Mary Watson is a great woman -- a government agent, a nurse, and a wife to the best man I know.” 

“What?” John says, turning toward her. “ _What?!_ ”

She stares numbly at the TV, where Sherlock is standing abruptly and ending the interview, ignoring Nina’s pleas to stay and answer more questions. Why did he --? How did he --?

“Was that --” John swallows, and she turns to face him finally. “Is that true?”

No point in denying it. “Yes.”

“So you’re --” he blinks “-- you’re working for the British government?” 

“I was, yeah.”

“What about that, the rogue CIA agent bit?” 

She shrugs. “Cover story. Though I did train with them a while.”

He purses his lips, stares up at her from under his brow. “So -- you’re a good guy?”

She gives a half-apologetic shrug, not really sure why she’s apologizing. “Basically. Yeah.”

John gets up, stalks into the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. A bit later, he returns with two mugs of hot water and hands one to her. “Are you going to keep surprising me?”

She wrinkles her nose, thinks about it. “Probably not this much, no.”

“Right,” he nods. “Right.” He takes a sip of his mug, then frowns down at it. “Forgot the tea.”

She smiles fondly. “Yeah, you did.” Then she asks, hesitantly, “You okay?”

He considers for a moment. “I think -- yeah, I think I will be. If I can get used to you as a murderer, I can get used to this, I suppose.” He shakes his head, but looks at her with a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips. “When did you tell Sherlock?”

She frowns. “I didn’t, actually. We’ll have to ask him how he deduced it.” Then she asks, “Where is Sherlock, anyway? He should be back by now -- that interview was pre-recorded.”

John frowns. “I don’t know. But I should probably go have a look for him.” 

He convinces her to stay in the flat while he goes to look on his own. (She’s going to be so happy when she’s no longer pregnant.) She falls asleep waiting and is awoken by a knock at the door, downstairs.

She has only her grogginess to blame, she supposes, for what happens next. She goes downstairs as fast as she can, expecting Mycroft or his men, or possibly John propping up an injured Sherlock. She doesn’t even have her gun out. It’s for that reason that the people at the door, who do have their guns out, are easily able to overpower her. She has a moment to register that they’re two men, nobody she knows, before one hits her on the head with his gun.

* * *

“Mary?” Sherlock says softly as she groans into consciousness. “Are you all right? Is the baby all right?”

She assesses. She’s tied up in a moving vehicle -- some kind of empty truck trailer, from what she can tell from the slight echo, but there’s almost no light to see by. She’s lying on her side with her arms behind her and wrists fastened to the floor. The baby, apparently as uncomfortable as she is, shifts restlessly inside her. Her head hurts, but as far as she can tell, she’s otherwise uninjured. The small of her back feels oddly empty; they’ve taken her gun. She feels a need to defecate, which she does her best to ignore, seeing as how she’s nowhere near a loo. “Yeah. You?” 

“A bit tied up at the moment,” he replies. She strains to see him in the dark, but can only make out his outline. 

“No luck with the restraints?”

“Nope,” he answers sourly. 

She shifts against the floor, trying to get more slack in the rope binding her wrists, or at least to get more comfortable. Her hip hurts terribly from being in this position so long, as do her arms. She can’t adjust much, though. “So where are we headed?”

“I believe Lord Moran’s estate,” he says. 

“So it is Moran behind this, then?” 

“It seems so, at least in part. I found evidence at the CAM network offices that he’s been collaborating with the reporters there.”

“Oh?”

“After my interview, I went through the files of the reporters who asked questions of the Prime Minister. I found a few articles -- including coverage of today’s press conference -- that were apparently passed to the reporters pre-written.”

“Oh my,” she says. “They were told what to ask ahead of time, then? That explains their friendly questions. How do you know it’s Moran who gave them the articles, though?”

“The other stories I found were also very interesting. Some were editorials casting doubt on the charges against Lord Moran.” Mary remembers reading those. “And the very first article was dated the fifth of November last year -- it described the destruction of Parliament by an underground bomb.”

“Moran’s plot!” She exclaims. “But it failed. So, that story --”

“Written ahead of time by someone who knew about the intended effects.”

She considers. “So CAM reporters have been working with Moran since last year -- were Magnussen and Moran in cahoots, then?” 

“It appears so.”

After all this time, has she finally stumbled across Magnussen’s secret partner? The revelation -- if that’s what it really is -- is entirely unsatisfying. “That makes no sense,” she says. “They never met.” She would know if they had. “And why would Magnussen want a partner who’s working for North Korea?”

“I don’t know.” She can hear the frown in his voice.

Their conversation is interrupted as the truck takes a sharp corner and they’re both jostled. She grunts as the pain in her hip and the pressure in her abdomen increase during the sudden movement. Her daughter kicks her own displeasure. There’s nothing to be done about it, though, so she tries to set aside her physical experience for the moment and focus on the questions at hand.

“All right, Magnussen and Moran,” she says, thinking aloud. “Let’s simplify. Forget North Korea -- could be a red herring, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admits. “It was always improbable, but it seemed the only explanation at the time.”

“Assume Moran and Magnussen have been collaborating via a go-between since the bomb plot. What were they up to? What is Moran up to?”

“Sowing chaos,” Sherlock muses. “Disruption. Fear.” Then, almost to himself, “No... That's not what Magnussen was after. He wanted power, influence; that must be Moran's goal as well. Why those ones, though?” he mutters.

“Which ones?” Mary asks.

“Those Cabinet members. Why would Moran want to replace two of the three top positions -- aside from the Prime Minister, whom he apparently controls already -- but not the Chancellor of the Exchequer? Why the Lord Chancellor instead?”

Something is niggling at her about the particular set of people asked to resign, but she can’t quite think what. She tries to think about it from Magnussen’s perspective. If he really was working with Moran, why would he want this? 

“Oh!” she gasps.

The silhouette of Sherlock’s head jerks sharply. “Tell me.” 

“Those are the only three Cabinet members Magnussen never met with. Not in all the years I watched him.”

Sherlock gets it instantly, of course. “Magnussen didn’t have blackmail material on them,” he says. “Moran is trying to replace them with Cabinet members who are easily controlled.” 

“Moran has Magnussen’s files, then,” Mary says. “So there really were vaults of secrets, after all?” 

“Some,” Sherlock says. “I do believe Magnussen was carrying a significant amount of information solely in his head. But he also stored some physical records -- just not at Appledore. At Moran’s estate, presumably, where Moran has been under house arrest.”

“It almost makes sense,” Mary says. “But there are still so many missing pieces. Starting with, how did they start working together -- and why?” 

“Mmm. Yes.” Sherlock is silent for a long time.

Mary wriggles around, searching in vain for a better position. The pressure in her abdomen is growing severe -- nearly cramping now. It’s going to be embarrassing if she has to relieve herself here in the truck. Doing her best to ignore that possibility, she says, “While I’ve got you here, then, tell me -- why did you feel the need to out me as a spy on national television?”

He pauses a moment. Then, “It was the only way to tell John the truth. For six months, he didn’t once look at the files you gave him. Then he threw them in a fire. He was always going to believe you were a much more horrible person than you truly are.”

She snorts. “Thanks, I think. But how did you know the truth?”

“You told me,” he says, a touch of a smile in his voice.

She thinks about it. “ _You_ read the flash drive!”

“Of course I did.”

“But -- if you knew all that, why did you think you had to shoot Magnussen to protect me?”

“I read the wrong drive at first.”

She frowns. “What? When?”

“Back at the hospital, before you made the switch -- nicely done, by the way. Silly me, thinking you came to visit me.” His voice is tinged with wry humor.

“No reason I couldn’t have been doing both,” she points out.

“Well. Before you came, I’d already looked at the drive. I did it one day while John was out.”

“I didn’t see that happen,” she says dubiously.

He chuckles. “Ah, you were watching us, then?”

“Yes,” she admits without hesitation.

“Of course you were,” he says, sounding pleased -- far more pleased, she’s sure, than he is when Mycroft spies on him. “I nicked the drive from John’s pocket, as soon as I was able to move about. Took it into the loo later, along with my laptop, and I had a quick look before replacing it.”

“But when did you read the other version?” she muses. “Not until after you shot Magnussen, clearly. Except -- that’s impossible! John threw it in the fire.”

She swears she can can hear Sherlock smiling in the dark. “I predicted John might destroy it without reading it; his past displays have made it clear that he favors loyalty over information. I made a copy of the drive before Christmas, so that in the event of a rash decision on John’s part, I would still have the data. While I was awaiting exile, I decided to read up on your contacts in Eastern Europe and took another look at it.”

“You got a bit of a surprise, then,” she says.

“Indeed.”

She feels the beginnings of a charley horse and straightens her leg, flexing her calf and moving her toes -- she’d about kill for the use of her hands right now. As the muscle starts to relax she says, slightly accusingly, “You know, I don’t think that interview was truly the only way to get John to listen. You could have just told him. He does listen to you, most of the time.”

“Perhaps. But this also served the purpose of ensuring that you’ll stop working for my brother. That’s by far the most disturbing aspect of your history.”

“Sherlock!” she scolds, but she can’t keep a laugh out of her voice. “You blew my cover to get me to stop working with Mycroft? You might have put me in danger.”

“Most of the people who might have come after you are dead at this point -- I checked. Besides, you like danger.”

She laughs again. “I suppose I do.” Then she sobers. “I’m sorry you killed Magnussen because of my cover story.”

“I’m not,” he answers quickly. “He was a terrible man.” 

It’s true, but she thinks it might also be a bit of bravado on Sherlock’s part. “Was he your first?”

He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “No. There were a few others, while I was away. Self-defense, mostly.”

“It felt different, the first time I deliberately killed someone,” Mary says softly. He doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m not sorry Magnussen is dead,” she says, after a pause. “He deserved worse, actually; you’ve no idea all the people who he toyed with, and the people he hurt or killed indirectly by exposing their secrets. The world is better off without him. But I am sorry you thought you had to kill him for me.”

She hesitates, then continues. “I know what taking a life feels like. And I work every day with people who have killed someone and regretted it. As well as those who’ve killed and been horrified to find they enjoyed it. So if you ever want to talk about it, any of it -- or if you want shooting lessons for the future -- just let me know.”

Sherlock says quietly, “I have always found Watsons to be very reliable and efficient when it comes to shootings -- as with everything else. I think I prefer to leave that department to the two of you, in the future. And I’m all right, I think. But -- thank you.”

“Of course.” She drops the topic, for now. He may change his mind and want to talk, someday, about the Magnussen shooting, or other dark moments from his past. If he does, she’ll be here. And if he doesn’t, she and John will take care of him without making him talk about it -- the way he and John have usually functioned. That’s assuming they get out of the current situation successfully, of course.

The truck slows, then stops, and the engine turns off. She takes a deep breath, preparing for action -- her hands are bound, but her legs are still free, and despite her discomfort, she’s ready.

The door swings open, and she squints against the bright light at her captors. She’s considering her next move when a familiar voice says, “You’re late.”

The two men turn in confusion. “Who are you?” the taller man asks.

John, a few steps behind them, says, “I’m taking them from here. You forgot someone -- you’ll have to go back.” His tone is brisk, authoritative. “Hurry up and get them out of the truck.”

One of them climbs in and starts loosening her bonds.

The other one starts to argue. “We were only told to fetch the two of them,” he tells John dubiously. Then he says, “Wait a minute, aren’t you --” 

Mary sees the man reaching for his gun as he speaks. She shouts a warning: “John!” At the same time, she jerks her knee swiftly upward and into the bridge of the nose of the man who’s untying her. He yells and falls backward and out of the truck, clutching his face.

John, with a few economical movements, has both their captors knocked out and on the ground. “I’m the one you forgot about,” he says with a tight smile at their prone forms.

Then he’s untying her and Sherlock, checking that both of them and the baby are all right. 

“How’d you find us?” She asks him, rubbing her wrists and working her legs to get the blood flowing again. They’re at the end of a long private drive, among some outbuildings and trees -- not at all an obvious destination.

John shrugs. “Lucky. I was coming home from failing to find Sherlock, and I saw them take you. I hopped in our car and followed. Spent most of the drive wishing I’d had time to fetch my gun first.”

“You were brilliant even without it,” Mary says, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “And dead sexy.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t disagree.

John grins. “Thanks.” Then he frowns and nods at the unconscious men. “I know these two. They kidnapped me -- put me in a bonfire.” He looks up at Sherlock from under his brows. “I suppose you’re going to tell me next that Magnussen is still alive and behind this kidnapping as well? Nobody stays dead these days.”

“Not Magnussen,” Sherlock says. “Moran.” He points toward a mansion in the distance, partially obscured by trees. “That’s the ancestral home of the Moran family.”

“But Moran was working with Magnussen,” Mary adds. “Probably.”

“The fact that he’s using the same men as Magnussen does seem to confirm the hypothesis,” Sherlock says. “But the answers to our remaining questions lie in Moran’s house.”

“Right,” John nods, accepting this calmly. “Well, I think I’m offended that I wasn’t considered enough of a threat for them to round me up.”

“One of us has to be the underestimated one who gets the others out of trouble,” Mary points out. “Besides, you always get kidnapped. It’s only fair that we get a turn.” She grins at him, and John smiles back, nodding in grudging acceptance of her logic.

“Mary and I have each threatened and thwarted Magnussen or Moran.” Sherlock says. “We have both proven ourselves formidable adversaries, likely to interfere with future plans. You haven’t.” 

“Right, thanks for that,” John says.

Sherlock flushes. “I mean, what Mary said was in essence correct. Spot on, Mary.” 

John and Mary exchange an amused glance. “We’ll fill you in on the evidence so far on the way to the house,” Mary says.

“You’re staying here,” John replies.

“You must be joking,” she says firmly. “I’m not missing this.”

“You’re due any day--”

“I’m due in almost three weeks,” she corrects. 

“But --”

“John.” Sherlock says, stilling him. “We could use backup. A crack shot who stays hidden and ready to help if anything goes awry.”

John scowls at each of them in turn, then throws up his hands. “Fine.”

She tries not to slow them down, but it’s a lost cause. She soldiers on as best she can. Halfway to the house, her water breaks. 

Oh! That puts her recent abdominal discomfort in a different light. She waits for the next contraction, then sets her watch to time the interval. She says nothing to the boys about the wetness trickling down her legs; they should almost certainly have enough time to wrap things up here before going to the hospital. 

The estate is painfully large, and she struggles to just keep walking through the agony when another contraction hits, to not show signs of her pain to John and Sherlock -- fortunately, they’re both quite distracted at this point. Finally, they leave her behind, hiding ignominiously behind a garden hedge near the house, wrapped in both their jackets. She’s glad to stay and rest. Another contraction hits and she doubles over, watching through a gap in the greenery while John and Sherlock peer into various unlit windows, trying a few latches. The intervals are getting shorter. _Hurry, John. Hurry, Sherlock._

Sherlock’s working on picking a lock when her contraction ends and she regains her focus. She’s apparently not the only one watching their efforts to break in. A tall red-blond man approaches them, holding a gun. 

She recognizes him from the dossiers Anderson gave her -- it’s Sebastian O’Morain. Oh! A few things start to slide into place. She trains her gun on him.

Sherlock puts down his tools, and he and John turn to face O’Morain. Mary is tempted to shoot him right then, while she’s not in the midst of a contraction. (Oh, God. Please let her not need to shoot anyone during a contraction.) But they need information, so she waits.

“Hullo,” John says in a deceptively pleasant voice. “You wouldn’t happen to know the best way into this place, would you?” 

Behind the hedge, Mary suppresses a laugh. Sherlock’s lip quirks; he sneaks an admiring glance at John. They both keep their hands at their sides, in spite of the gun pointed at them.

“My uncle’s house?” O’Morain replies in an Irish brogue, with a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Oh, I think I do. He’d prefer I deal with you out here, though.”

“Sorry, you are?” John asks, still calm.

“Sebastian O’Morain,” Sherlock answers. “Moriarty’s close associate -- one of the few I was unable to eliminate before returning to London. A former member of the IRA, a bomber and a sniper, and apparently a nephew of Lord Moran.”

John cocks his head, studying O’Morain. “Can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

O’Morain continues to smile his cold smile. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you, though. Or that I’ve had a gun pointed at you. But usually I’ve been farther away.”

 _Usually?_ Mary guesses O’Morain is referring to the pool and Bart’s. Or are there other times John’s had a sniper gun trained on him from a distance, maybe without knowing? She can’t help shivering at the possibility, even though it’s in the past.

John blinks. “Right. That’s not creepy at all,” he mutters. 

“Your surname change presumably worked to both your uncle’s and your advantages,” Sherlock observes. “It does your uncle no good to have apparent ties to Irish terrorists -- and you no good to have ties to the British government.”

“Jim always said you were a clever one.” He doesn't say it with admiration, though -- more like thinly veiled loathing. Mary sees Sherlock’s answering expression and sighs to herself; assuming they all get out of this all right, she really needs to have a talk with him about not smirking at people who dislike him and have guns.

“So,” John says, drawing O’Morain’s gaze, “after Moriarty died, you became a go-between for Moran and Magnussen? Why?”

O’Morain shakes his head. “You’re much less clever, aren’t you?” John glares -- behind the hedge, Mary glares on his behalf as well. “I’m afraid you’re not thinking about it right.”

John looks confused, but Sherlock gets it. “Of course. Magnussen was already working with Moriarty.” It’s the same theory Anderson and the fanclub proposed, but Mary still doesn’t see the connection. 

John looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Think, John. How did Moriarty walk free after breaking into three of England’s most important institutions?” 

_Oh…. oh!_ Mary sees it a moment before John.

John tilts his head. “By threatening the jury?”

“Exactly. Magnussen supplied Moriarty with pressure points on each of the jury members. And later, I suspect, he also blackmailed Moran’s judge to keep pushing his court case back.”

O’Morain nods. “As you say, Magnussen was already working with Jim; I merely continued the relationship. And I recognized that he and my uncle shared some goals.”

“They both wanted to control the nation,” Sherlock says. “And you also benefited, didn’t you?”

O’Morain’s cold smile creeps back across his face. “Can you imagine -- an Irish nationalist pulling the strings of the British government? I could hardly resist.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “It was the perfect partnership, I suppose,” he reflects. “Magnussen worked to get as many MPs as possible under your thumbs, and he also controlled a media empire to help disperse information as necessary. Moran supplied additional information on Lord Smallwood and some other peers. And you helped your uncle try to remove from power anyone that Magnussen lacked dirt on -- by bomb or by kidnapping or by whatever means necessary.” The arrangement Sherlock describes does have a certain elegance that Mary reluctantly admires.

“You helped him kidnap me, as well,” John adds sourly.

“Yeah, that was a bit of fun,” O’Morain says, smirking under John's glare. “Though mostly Magnussen preferred a more subtle approach.” 

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “The Guy Fawkes Day plot was primarily your uncle’s plan, wasn’t it?”

“My uncle never has had Magnussen’s patience.” 

“No, he preferred to burn down the whole system first and then rebuild it around people that the three of you already controlled, didn’t he?” Sherlock says. “In fact, you probably warned the MPs already in your grasp about the bombing ahead of time.”

“All of them just happened to have unavoidable conflicts and were regrettably going to miss the vote.”

“What a coincidence,” John says dryly.

“Magnussen was more willing to play a slow game than Moran,” Sherlock muses. “He never stopped working to gradually gain influence, did he?"

O’Morain shakes his head. “After the bomb plot was foiled, he continued to build up his files on as many MPs as he could. He persuaded my uncle that they needed to lay low for a while after creating such a visible threat to Parliament.”

Mary wonders if Mycroft would still have wanted to leave Magnussen alone (aside from spying on him and attempting to feed him information) if he had realized the extent of Magnussen's ambitions. She suspects not, but can't be sure; Mycroft is often willing to play complex and dangerous games.

“My uncle grumbled, but didn’t fight him on it,” O’Morain continues.

“But after Magnussen died...” John prompts.

Sherlock continues. “Neither you nor Lord Moran have the patience or ability to gather blackmail information on all the remaining members of the Cabinet. So you’ve brought back the threat of Moriarty, and you’re acting now.”

O’Morain smiles. “The people of Great Britain are so easy to terrify,” he says. “And it’s so enjoyable to do so.”

“And one of the first acts of the new government," Sherlock postulates, "will be to pardon Lord Moran of any wrongdoing and appoint him to one of the empty Cabinet positions, along with other people that Magnussen has dirt on.”

“A safe prediction,” O’Morain agrees. Then he says, “Well, this has been fun, but I’m afraid I need to go finish taking over Britain. And,” he raises the gun so it points at Sherlock’s chest, “I’m also afraid I don’t see any reason to keep you around any --”

A shot rings out.

O’Morain crumples to the ground.

“Nice shot,” John says as Mary emerges from behind the hedge. 

“Thanks,” she grins.

“Imperfectly timed,” Sherlock says. “We could have found out so much more --”

“Ingrate,” she says, pulling a face at him. “Sorry to ruin the fun of him trying to kill you, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”

“Why?” John asks.

“Time to go to the hospital. I’m in labor.”

John and Sherlock both yelp with alarm. 

“Calm down,” she says. “We have some time. Labor takes hours, you know.” 

Sherlock has his phone out before she’s finished speaking. A moment later, he says, “Hello, Brother. I’ve earned my pardon. Send a helicopter to the Moran estate, where you’ll find Magnussen’s remaining stash of secrets and two traitors -- one alive, one dead.

“Send a second helicopter as well. Mary Watson is in labor.” A wave of relief washes over her. She sounds much calmer than she really is; the fact that her water has broken and her contractions are coming every ten minutes or so means they really should get to the hospital. But there’s no point in worrying them further.

Another contraction hits, and she leans against John’s shoulder, groaning and panting now that she doesn’t have to hide it -- the pain is definitely getting worse, and all her attention focuses on the sensation. John holds her steady, and Sherlock moves to her side as well. She leans gratefully against both of them. After the contraction, they walk her over to a nearby bench.

Now the boys are definitely panicking. John’s a doctor and should probably know better, but he’s had no personal experience with labor. She ignores their fussing and Sherlock’s pacing and John’s mostly ineffectual shoulder rubbing for a few minutes, and then she puts a halt to it.

“Stop.” They do, instantly. “There is something I need you to do, John.”

“Anything,” John says. “Tell me.”

“I need you to talk to Sherlock,” she says.

John frowns. “Sorry -- what?” She raises her eyebrows at him and he jerks his head back, looking startled. He licks his lips. “What, you mean --? _Now?_ ” (He’d probably be turning pink at this point, except it’s December, and it’s freezing cold, so he’s already pink.) Sherlock looks back and forth between them, confused.

“Yes, _now_ ,” she says. “I’m not going to deliver this baby distracted by worry that he’s going to do something noble and stupid and run off again. Just say it,” she instructs. “Now.” He sighs and nods, then turns to Sherlock, who looks apprehensive. 

“I, erm,” John stutters. “What Mary is trying to say is, erm.” He looks at Mary imploringly, but she’s not going to help him with this.

“There’s.” John continues, swallowing. “There’s room for three of us --”

“Oh, indeed,” Sherlock breaks in, “your flat is large enough for three, particularly when one is an infant -- but you’re wanting to move to larger one? Very well, I’m happy to assist in the search for a larger domicile.”

“No,” John says, while Mary hides a smirk. “No, that’s not it. If you put it that way, I suppose, it’s more that there’s room for four --”

“You’re having twins!” Sherlock exclaims. “Congratulations!” Then he eyes Mary’s abdomen. “It was the sign of four, then, at the wedding -- though I wouldn’t have suspected --”

“No,” John says, firmly. “No, just. Sherlock, just listen. Listen to me. Please.”

Sherlock goes quiet. So does John. He flexes his hands, and he glances off at the horizon. He looks at Mary. Mary smiles back but says nothing. She can’t do this for him. Or, technically, she could -- she’s tempted to, in fact; it would be so much more efficient -- but she can’t keep doing their communication for them forever. They’re going to have to learn to talk to one another eventually. So she just smiles and nods encouragingly.

“What I mean to say is.” John says quietly, looking, finally, at Sherlock. “That it was never a choice.” He licks his lips. “It was never supposed to be a choice. I didn’t tell you --” he shakes his head. “When I told you before that I had to sort things out with Mary, what I meant was, it wasn’t a choice --”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupts. “I understand, and I --”

“No, you don’t,” John says. “No, just. Just listen. What I mean to say, it was never a choice between you or Mary. It was a choice between you, or you _and_ Mary.”

Sherlock blinks. And blinks again, repeatedly. John waits, but he doesn’t say anything. Eventually, John continues. “There’s something else I should have said to you before you --” he swallows, shaking his head. “Before you went away. And I should have told you after. So many times. I almost --” he shakes his head, and Mary wonders if he ever, ever is going to come to a point. She can just make out the sound of helicopter blades in the distance… he’d better hurry. Sherlock stands stock still, staring at John with a look of faint bewilderment.

“What I mean to say, Sherlock.” John looks at him, looks at her -- she gives him a quick thumbs up -- looks back at him. “Oh, sod this.” John reaches out and grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, and he pulls him into a kiss. Sherlock stiffens in confusion.

Mary lets out a cheer, then regrets it as Sherlock and John break apart. Sherlock looks slightly relieved by her response, but still baffled.

“I love you, Sherlock.” John says. (Finally! Finally.) “And I love Mary. And now that things are sorted between her and me, we would really like it if you would stick around and not try to get out of our way. Because you are very much not in the way.”

Sherlock still doesn’t speak. He looks at her, shocked into silence. She smiles encouragingly and says, “I’m in favor. And I would appreciate it if you would snog my husband to signal your agreement -- and if you would do it quickly, before your brother arrives and things get awkward.”

Sherlock grimaces, then nods. He looks at them both in turn, and he says, “John and Mary Watson. You both surprise me, like nobody else. And I will gladly --” he grabs John and pulls him into a long and thorough kiss. Mary laughs with delight and relief and exhaustion. When they release each other, she grins at them both, and they grin back, dazedly. 

Inside, her body pushes and changes, and her daughter gets ready to be born. Outside, she feels ready for that moment, finally. The whole family is here, together, and everything is going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a beast of a chapter, though I'm very pleased with how it eventually turned out. Thanks to Ariane DeVere one last time for her [HLV transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html). Thanks so much to Amy P., ShinySherlock, Lisa E., and never(r)where for the multiple rounds of beta feedback, which improved this chapter immensely. And thanks to jmathieson for fielding a few additional questions about British government. Any errors are, or course, mine.


	21. Epilogue

_Her name is Gwen,_ she writes. 

_Gwen Janine Watson. (Gwen Janine Sherlock Watson, actually -- long story. Hope you’ve forgiven Sherlock and don’t mind that she has his name as well as yours.) She’s four months old. _

_I would be glad to introduce her to you -- but more glad of a chance to apologize for what I did. For I am deeply sorry. I have regretted my actions so often, and missed you so frequently. So frequently, in fact, that I have composed over four hundred unsent text messages to you since my daughter was born. _

_You don’t owe me anything. But should you ever want to receive a longer apology in person, or to claim all those texts that are rightfully yours, or to meet your namesake -- I’ll be here. We all will. _

She folds the letter around a photo of Gwen and a photo of the whole family, and she sticks it in an envelope.

From below, her daughter cries. Mary gets up from the small desk in her upstairs bedroom, and she walks downstairs.

In the sitting room of 221B, Mycroft Holmes holds Gwen in his lap, bouncing his knees up and down and shushing her gently. It’s working; she’s quieting, staring at Mycroft with her big blue eyes and forgetting to frown. Mary goes into the kitchen to prepare a bottle.

She passes Sherlock, who is smirking and rosining his bow. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Brother,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I’m seven years your elder, _Brother,_ ” he says pointedly. “I held you on my lap and shushed you when you were of a similar size.”

Sherlock grimaces. “Well, Gwen prefers Paganini to your noises.” He begins to play softly. 

Mary returns a few minutes later with the bottle to find Gwen watching Sherlock, enraptured. It’s a common scene. “I don’t know how you can stand to live with him,” Mycroft says quietly to her as she takes Gwen from his arms, “but I’m glad you can. He’s better, with you and John here.” 

“Happier?” she suggests.

He raises an eyebrow. “That, too.” He sits on the sofa next to her as she gives Gwen her bottle. (She's almost gotten past the disappointment of not being able to successfully breastfeed, but not quite.)

"Here you go, my hungry little beast," Mary says; now that Gwen is here, inquisitive and demanding and occasionally roaring very loudly indeed, they've all agreed she seems more like a little beast than a little dove. ("A nice beast," Sherlock had clarified when John had first applied the nickname. "Oh, like you and John?" Mary had responded with a teasing smile, earning a scowl -- but later, she'd heard Sherlock tell Gwen when he thought no-one was listening, "Hush now and drink your milk, so you grow up into a nice strong beast like the rest of us. I've tested it for impurities.") 

Mycroft studies her, then adds, “Living here suits you, as well.”

She smiles. “Yeah, it really does. Who’d have guessed.”

“I’m glad. Though you are missed in your former role. Should you ever feel restless or desire to return to the service, I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” she says with a grin. “But so far, living with your brother and John, I’ve yet to be bored.”

“Yes,” he says dryly, eyeing Sherlock, “Boredom hardly seems likely to be the biggest risk of living here.

“There’s someone from the office who particularly misses you, though,” he notes. “She’ll be returning to London tomorrow, and I was told to ask if you wanted to get drinks on Saturday.”

Mary squeals with delight -- but very softly, so as not to disturb their daughter, who is so well-behaved and content at the moment, drinking from her bottle and listening to Sherlock play. When the piece is over, Mary asks, “Sherlock, can I go out for drinks with Anthea Saturday night?” Sherlock frowns but doesn’t answer. He sets down the violin and grabs his laptop.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in amazement. She laughs and says, “Oh, it’s not that I need permission. It’s just that it will wreck his spreadsheet if I’m not here to put Gwen to bed.”

“I’m tracking a number of developmental variables,” Sherlock mutters. “Is it too much to ask that we keep the sleeping arrangements to a set cycle so we can reduce confounds?”

“You and John can sleep in John’s and my bed that night and keep her in the upstairs crib,” she offers, “if that helps.” She’s pretty sure Sherlock was planning to use his and John’s room for an experiment this weekend -- babyproofing the flat has meant fewer hazardous substances in the kitchen. 

Sherlock frowns, types, and mutters. Mycroft looks like he’s just received too much information about how their household functions. She barely resists needling him by explaining in detail when she shares her room with John, or the baby, or both, or neither, and when the sex occurs. But she values Mycroft as a potential babysitter a bit too much for that.

There’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs up to the flat, and John walks in.

“How’s Harry’s new place?” she asks, kissing him hello as he leans down to say hi. 

He stoops to give Gwen a quick kiss, too, then says, “Good. Less empty, now that I’ve helped her move a couple dozen boxes,” he adds with a grimace, rotating his shoulder. “It’ll be nice to have her nearby.” He walks over to Sherlock, still frowning at his computer screen, and kisses the top of his head. Sherlock, absorbed in the spreadsheet, doesn’t notice.

“Did you ask Harry about dinner?” Mary asks.

“Yeah, I did -- she said she’ll be glad to come to dinner next week.”

“Excellent,” Mary says with a smile. 

There’s a peaceful lull while John collapses into a doze in his armchair, and Sherlock finishes his spreadsheet adjustments. Mrs. Hudson drops by to fuss over Gwen and bring her a new blanket she’s knitted, and Sherlock and Mycroft deduce the origin of the wool and the gauge and imperfections of the knitting needles. After Mrs. Hudson departs, Gwen rediscovers her toes for the dozenth time that day and sucks them happily.

It’s almost unbearably domestic until footsteps sound on the stairs again. Lestrade appears in the door. 

“A man who’s been dead eight years was just murdered,” he says, looking at Sherlock. “Will you come?”

Sherlock says, “Of course,” then hesitates. He looks at John and Mary, who look at Mycroft. “Go,” Mycroft tells them, taking Gwen. “She could use some time with a more wholesome influence.”

John snorts, but says, “Thanks,” and Mary and Sherlock thank him as well. Sherlock pauses to issue extensive instructions on the care of Gwen -- and the keeping of various spreadsheets -- until Lestrade says, “Sherlock!” 

And they’re gone, on the case together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lisa E., ShinySherlock, Amy P., and never(r)where for the beta feedback!

**Author's Note:**

> These additional tags and warnings used to be at the beginning, but the highlighting trick doesn't work for some browsers, so I've moved them here.
> 
>  **Additional content warnings:** This story gets dark at times (His Last Vow pretty much guarantees that), but most of it is not grim, and I promise a happy ending. If you want specific warnings, highlight the following for more tags:  canon-typical violence, initial ambivalence toward pregnancy, discussion of the possibility of abortion, depression, suicidal ideation. Also, in case you're seeking explicit Johnlock -- the only (occasional) onscreen sex is John/Mary, because this is a Mary POV story. Some of it may involve discussions of Sherlock, though. :) 
> 
> **Additional shipping info:** A number of readers who read this as a WIP were in suspense about the final relationship configuration and expressed dismay when I added tags that spoiled the end. Other readers told me that they need to know the final configuration before they can commit to the story. So this is my attempt to solve that dilemma -- highlight the following if you want to know the final set of relationships:  Polyamorous ending; John is involved with both Mary and Sherlock -- who are not sexually involved with each other -- and they all live together. Some of you may backspace out fast at this point, which is of course fine, but I'll add that I think many canon Mary dislikers will enjoy this story, based on comments I've received from people in that category.
> 
> * * *
> 
> And with that, my friends, we've made it to the end of the Novel That Ate My 2014! I was just going back through my notes and was surprised to find that I started outlining this story the evening that HLV aired... apparently, I immediately started trying to make sense of S3, and it only took me a year. ;) I've really enjoyed writing this (even the dark parts have been therapeutic), and I feel happier with S3 having done so -- even though I'm pretty certain most of this won't turn out to be canon. :) 
> 
> It's been such a delight to hear from readers along the way; thanks so much to everyone who has left kudos or comments. It's a treat to share this story with you all!
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you enjoyed this, I've started adding to the [series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/226778). And here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Disregard the Danger by DestinationToast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872437) by [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy)




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